It’s always memory and mementoes: the grey hairs stuck in your grandmother’s brush, the lingering scent of her rosewater rinse. It’s candlesticks salvaged from the church fire and the visor mirror from your first car, a Ford Futura, when bumpers were still made of metal. It’s the new filling in your back molar promising relief, the fever finally breaking. It’s the dome in Genesis—Day Three—separating waters above from waves below. Later, much later, under the Wolf Moon of a winter storm warning, a chickadee’s nest cradles beaded blooms of Russian sage and faded lavender. It’s the freezing rain, downed lines, power outage. It’s finding candles in the dark and the successful scratch of the last match. It’s the broken Zippo lighter you gave your best girl before shipping out, asked her to get fixed, have ready for your return. It’s the self-winding Timex she gifted you that’s now stuck, but still Indiglo-ing, at 1300 hours. It’s the tracks leading into Potter Street Station, the river to the west, beating against cracked concrete, always seeking north. It’s a pair of dimes flattened, Roosevelt’s Adam’s apple, “In God We Trust” elongated into nothingness; you just know they’re there.