My great grandmother was a tiny force of a woman. When she died, she was ninety pounds of muscle memory. They say moments live on in your bones, like words layered brick by brick. You’re a skeletal foundation of stories and your knees are muddy with unthawing. She wore thick white tights soft as the pale fuzz of hair wisping around her face. Her apartment walls were red velvet, plush and cloying in your nose. You took off your shoes before you came in, and there was a clatter of pairs by the door. She made chicken noodle soup and served it on china from the Czech Republic. The plates alone were petals. Grace, she said, and in between breaths, don’t let weeds grow between your ribs. I cried at her funeral and the sound of death broke on my skin, falling like snow. The slush soaked through my boots. We had soup for lunch. That day, her glass bowl slipped on the spring earth into shards as small as seeds.
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