i pull hairs from her hairbrush and inspect if they are mine or hers. i stand square in the bathroom mirror pulling my hair back to see her upturned nose, her square jaw, her round forehead, her round blue irises. the veil shifts, i am florescent lit on the rug and standing before her backlit silhouette in the hallway; the first time she looked sick. june comes like shadows on my periphery vision, phantoms of not t/here. i feel my body trying to buttress itself against the onslaught of july. july the fever and her seizures and the waiting room living room of the breathless. july the second year.