Timothy thought about an article he read some time ago about how dust is made up mostly of dead skin. He thought about the pieces of his mother that were still there. How much of her was embedded in the walls, the cracks in the floor? They would never be able to extract her fully from this room. In the graveyard, she was dead, decaying, melting into the earth, but she’d been dying here for years, little pieces sloughing off and floating to rest among the junk.
