her burnished copper coils before they aged silver. the way a single word draws up memory of a song and her voice erupts. the sweat staining her underarms as she pushed the mower through gold light. her grandma’s silver pot at the foot of our shared bed catching the rainwater leaking from the tile ceiling. napkins and wrappers and soda cans and bottles lining the floor of our van, kicked aside by small feet as they clambered in. the flowers i bought for her each birthday, left in the untended garden when she sold the house. a double-booked appointment with her cardiologist where i received a heart monitor and she received a new list of medications she waited six months to switch to. her strong, delicate hands folding endless boxes each time we moved; pushing one edge under and pulling the other edge over in a way my own hands have never known how to replicate. ignoring the sign not to climb on the counter so i could watch her fill an aldi’s box with bridge-card food; expert-level tetris player utilizing every inch of space. her hand across my cheek just before the first time i ran away. the gap between her teeth before they gave her dentures; the gap between my teeth before the fillings closed it.