In 1993 I escorted my mother on her first return to Poland in more than 45 years. She and my father had met in the Jewish ghetto in Zawiercie, Poland in July 1943, just a few weeks before being taken to Auschwitz.
She always wanted to show me where she was from and at 75 knew her time on Earth was fleeting. We drove around Poland in a car with no radio or air-conditioning, just a mother and son facing history. I photographed her attempt at closure, hiding behind the camera while trying to convince myself that later I might start to understand. But there is no understanding, no calm breaths that could help grasp any knowledge from the irretrievable.