I'm looking for my grandma although she's with me all the time.
To go the other way around--to know in the knowing way and then scrounge for the details--the photos, the scarves, the wicker bureau. I had the details for such a small time. Now I know but that's not enough. I want details to fill my shrine with, to weave stories with, to create images with. A memory without a face is so hard to hold. She's holding me but I need more so I can shiver in her dancer's arms and smell her powder smell. My dad is the only one living who can help me now. Each story becomes a cat in a blanket. These are what I will take with me. I am waiting for a manilla of photos--he says he will sort through storage and send them. I am waiting in here.