Those who know me know I harbor a life-long curiosity-bordering-on-obsession with my hometown. When I moved to New Mexico in 2005, what had been a place I ran from became a place I longed for. I dreamed of Wellesley weekly, sometimes nightly. In the summer of 2015, I started photographing it, to complement the story I’ve been writing since 2006.

Much of what I documented, I documented for myself. Some stories only the person who was there can see. But some places burst with themselves. These are those. It seems like a good place to start.

I start you, as if in one of my dreams, outside Roche Brothers supermarket, where my mother shopped when I was a child, and I bagged groceries as a teenager. From there, we wander Wellesley’s fields and forests, skirt past my old neighborhood, the town swimming hole, the old town reservoir, and a scattershot of other memories.

This place may not remind you of anywhere you’ve been. Or it may look like an island, only accessible from a book, or an old story. Maybe it’s like an unwelcoming place—or the place itself—you’ve always wondered about. Wherever you come from, you’re with me, now, and this beautiful summer morning, please come in.