Her life spills over on side tables and magazine-littered chairs along with a bed never used, the curtain never drawn and a roommate who sleeps all the time. I tell my children to remember to touch her as much as possible, kiss her and hug her for it is in touch that we become human; it is in touch that we become divine. But all she wants to do is smoke, so we go outside to share a cool 40 degree temperature with three smoking women; all of their oxygen tanks wait for them in the entry way, their conversation riddled with cough. These are hard memories to wake up to this morning and the sky--layered in warring clouds--carries its own secrets, binding the day to a congealed memory.
winter sunlight-- a prowl of unknown tracks in the snow