I remember trying on my grandmother’s wedding dress in front of the mirror in the room I always slept in, in the house where my mother was born. It was impossibly long and had an impossibly slim waist. I could just close the zipper, and I was only 8. The white silk was woven in a flower pattern and the long sleeves had rows of covered buttons down by the hands. She didn’t stay married for long but she always kept the dress. It smelled like her, some kind of flower I have never been able to figure out mixed with something dry and old, like rose petals that’s been dry so long they mostly smell of dust.
Fragment 4: a piece of a double sided mirror.
Lichens, like embroidery on the rocks.
Mum checking her phone during a break by the river.