Sometimes, I think about your hair, how it must have smelled of the space in bones where and when we curve inward, layered in casein, dry oats, incoherences. How yesterday, you picked up a slab of sheep meat, a couple of rib bones for dinner tonight, tomatoes. How yesterday, you might have forgotten to soothe yourself in forgiveness and the temporary bleached wave of gratitude, its constant bell. There is a stubbornness to grief. Its crooked stem continues to hang at an angle from the clay. My father and I stood on the corner of Emad Eldeen street, stared at how you were wrapped in your bag for hours because you didn’t have any ID on you, how a name must still be somewhere, starting to cloud in someone’s mouth. My father was pressing on to my hand, as though the smaller the space between our fingers, the more certain we would become of our own bodies: the bitter promise of calcified bones, brief blades the dusky color of iron, derma folding into its stretch, everything beneath fluttering, contained.