eight days into ohio and i try to understand what my mother has collected in dust. always the glass cabinets with wings, the jars with thread or loose book bindings. i know i am separate. separate in grief. separate in love. i have to hold my body out in front of my body in order to realize this- a metaphysical act. my hair is growing out in rust. the winter has taken color from my lips and made my eyes calm like leaves. inside i am still trembling.