Status Updates From The White Book

Swaddling bands white as snow are wound around the newborn baby. The womb will have been such a snug fit, so the nurse binds the body tight, to mitigate the shock of its abrupt projection into limitlessness.

Paint tin in one hand, brush in the other, I stood unmoving, a dumb witness to the snowflakes' slow descent, like hundreds of feathers feathering down.

She is sitting at the desk, like someone who has never known suffering.
Not like someone who has just been crying or
is about to.
Like someone who has never shattered.
As though there has never been a time when the only comfort lay in the impossibility of
forever.

That her body (all our bodies) is a house of
sand
That it had shattered and is shattering still.
Slipping stubbornly through fingers.