Annie and Vera, my great-aunts, always lived in the same house in Chicora, Pennsylvania. Neither ever married or left. Annie got spinal meningitis when she was eight, which left her perpetually childlike, ornery yet vulnerable. Every day the train would pass by their house at noon and at seven, marking the sameness of another day, the sureness of time.
In 1988, when they were in their eighties, I began photographing their vanishing world.