I am stopped in shadow on the stairs. Underneath the feet of my pajamas is carpet the color it’s not supposed to be. It shows the singe marks of embers fallen from the cigarettes that made my grandfather disappear forever. My presence there is a secret. Through the baluster bars, I watch my grandmother across the room. Everything is brown—her hair, her skirt, her stockings, her open-toed shoes. She stands only inches away from a black and white photograph of my grandfather framed on the wall. I have never seen her so close to anything. I have never seen her whisper. 

*

I am stopped on the threshold of the sculpture studio, covered in clay. A saw’s sounds draw me near. The coral colored double doors open slightly to a courtyard. To a mews. Former carriage houses line both sides. Blue, brick, pale yellow. Protecting those huddled in the corner and the school where I study is a mulberry tree losing her limbs. Aproned, arms akimbo, I shout. Hands in prayer, I whisper. 

*

I am stopped under the new Southern sky motionless in front of the rental’s open hatch. I hear not the river’s beat, but my own heart’s. There is the March midnight chill. The scent of the pine mountain air. The taste of the coffee that kept me awake on the twelve hour drive. The touch of my feet on the ground I cannot feel. There is not the woven basket. Not its contents. Not the pink floral tin canister, not the green. Not the remnants. Not you. My God, I whisper.