Egon Schiele, Death and the Maiden
Soak your feet in the blood and the ash. You belong here. Buried in this soil is your mother’s silver webbed hair, her moth paper skin, her toes spongey and black, curled like seashells from years shrouded in a post-mortem slumber. Her ancient breath sleeps and then wakes, weaving itself as a thin thread, sewing together the crusted layers of ice and earth. If you dig deep enough your seeking fingers will melt into this grave of memories, this hearth of bones.