The Smell of Dill

On finding family in a place that isn’t home — and realizing I’ve been missing it all along.

It was the smell of summer salad.
The taste of freshly brewed, strong coffee.
Voices mixing with scents. Someone laughing. Someone calling everyone to the table. Someone setting plates, slicing bread, straightening the tablecloth.
Roman and I are in Chicago — in a house where, for the first time in forty years, almost his entire family has gathered.

Around twenty-five people under one roof.
Three, maybe four generations. Children, grandmothers, aunts, cousins.
Everyone speaking Russian.
As if I’m not in America, but somewhere just outside of Samara.

— “Where do you live?”
— “What do you do?”
— “Are you planning to have kids?”

It’s not out of nosiness.
It’s just the language of family.
A language where roots matter more than branches.

I listen, watch, smile — and realize:
I didn’t think I missed this.
But maybe I did.

I moved from Russia over ten years ago. Alone.
All my family stayed there.
Since then, life has been in motion — Los Angeles, photoshoots, clients, dreams. Everyone around me is the same: people who left, who started over, who built something from scratch.
Family?
A rare luxury.
More often a “someday” idea.
If at all.

I spent years photographing other people’s families.
Children, weddings, hands reaching for each other.
Obsessively.
As if I were trying to get closer to something I never had myself.
And then… something shut off.
Not from burnout. But because —
I no longer wanted to just witness.
I wanted to belong.

Since then, a lot has changed.
I met Roman.
We’re getting married soon.
And now, standing here among his family, I realize:
I want this.
My own family.
My own smell of fresh dill.
My own Sundays, where someone says, “Are you warm enough?”
I don’t want to just be a part of someone else’s story —
I want to create my own.

I used to think I didn’t feel nostalgic.
That I didn’t miss anything.
That I chose my path, and that was that.
And now here I am, standing in a kitchen that’s both foreign and familiar,
holding a cup of tea,
and realizing —
I did miss it.
Deeply.

JUNE 2025