For the first few years that I lived on the prairie I drove, occasionally, past a small shed with a sloped roof standing by itself in a field, and something nagged at me that I couldn't name. Over time it dawned on me that there were windows on every side of the shed: who builds a shed with so many windows? And I realized, it wasn't a shed: this was a homestead. Someone had built it, cleared and farmed the land, and raised a family in that shanty. Raised twelve children, I later learned, in the two rooms smaller in total than my living room. After that I became drawn to the far-off crumbling homesteads that are being gradually taken back by abandoned fields. The ghosts of those families, the children who grew up there, the meals, the music, the prayers, the passings, seem to whisper from the empty windows, and I am careful to be respectful and thankful when I intrude to take my pictures of these haunted places.