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the long wait, the cleaning, the smell of bleach. my mother losing her mother just like she wandered away in the supermarket but she's wearing one of those alert bracelets. my mother cutting off all her hair. my mother breaking open in halves. my mother searching in me and not finding enough. the sinking, the rise. throwing things away like at some point their molecules open up and receive pungent screaming thoughts and those too go to fester in a landfill. throwing things away desperately like things rid rooms of oxygen. one long moment that is actually two weeks. writing a to-do list and only accomplishing half but also accomplishing another list of things, ten lists of things i didn't think were important before. twenty four people see my heart and none of them eat it and my heels press back into the floor with relief. the drawing up of dragons, the anticipation. humming with the joy of a slightly overripe nectarine and the need to hide it from bugs with my mouth. the realization of loss. the huge physicality of grief. i was short of breath thirty days of the hundred. stepping on fingers both as support and out of insecurity or jealousy which might be the same thing anyway. sometimes discovering peace by accident, others ripping it out with teeth, but that is the other nine months too.