the darkness of the apartment feels like wading blindfolded through cold. even eyelashes. numb. and when i open the door to this room. everything i ever thought i knew about the geography of meaning. the intricacies of respiration. how to change a tire in the rain. fall useless. like broken snow globes. on any night like this one. i pause in the frame. count. red . . . two. and when i stand in the pause of the house. lean into its forgiveness. then. when my grandmother was young she was left abandoned. i imagine her now in the weakest part of my mind. the shrill slant of her eyes. the lap of my childhood unfolding the sharp edges of the world. and wonder if women in my family were just meant for this kind of life. to love. no matter what.