your grandmama had a story she would always whisper when you were half asleep in her lap. something about ashes and ashes, dust and dust, but you’ve never been able to make sense
​of it. our family is two parts cremation, she’d say, and one part glacier—that’s the short and long of it.

the house is cold and it's not even winter yet, but what can you do about that? the strays don't help, always mewl to be let in. you open the door and they stare at you, unblinking. you can’t take the quiet, scoop them up and take them inside. their foggy forms threaten to slip through your fingers. at least they're something warm to hold onto.

there's a dry well out back last used by your grandfather; dusty china in a cabinet that hasn't been opened since you were a child; untouched and faded children’s drawings stacked next to the attic window. no one's been around to visit since your brother checked in, but his eyes were too sharp, his smile too thin. you don't think he's coming back.

this house changed you, you think, and not for the better. you used to be someone who laughed too loud, danced in the rain. now you sit by the window and watch things in the woods skitter, not quite wild but not quite real either.

this is a halfway place. you don't know on which side of the line you stand, now, and you're not sure if you want to.

the hearth is cold. it's the middle of june, and there is snow on the porch. strays twist their way between your limbs and your ribs and into the space behind your eyes. this, at least, is a hospitality—an intrusion—you are familiar with, inhabiting your own body as you are.
​
you close your eyes, see your grandfather, younger than you are now, as he laughs and smokes a pipe by the well. you see your grandmother tell you a story in a language you don't understand. you see your brother, eyes too sharp, smile too thin. you see yourself, dance in the rain. and then you see the thing in the woods, no longer hiding in the bush, not quite wild, not quite real. see it coming closer and you realize that, while you're still unsure of where you stand—two parts cremation, one part glacier--you might be ready to find out