broken shell, empty pen, dead hearing aid battery, and a single gray strand, a silver sliver, a wave of her caught between two thin bars of a bobby pin. only one, though she wore two. this pin lost its partner. one end adorned by rhinestone and sparkle. the other open. wired to clasp, to anchor, to hold back the glow of silvery silk and uncover eyes mindful of the living the chipped polish in my nail, the rip in my sleeve or the dull coffee stain down my blouse. her hand reaching to wipe away, to smooth down or cradle the wrong and laugh hard and easy, leaning, rocking, forward and backward until the pin drooped, angled, and slipped away. snowy hair unanchored, adrift. I am her hair.