Between text and binding the yellow sound of my grandmother’s memories persist after her death. She speaks of home and an old family of crows who live on branches above black roof shingles. The sound of water runs through wall and floor pipes. The reflections are of sound waves from the surface of journal entries found after her death. The soft touch of life has darkened the book’s spine and edge wear on the page hints at the dust-soiling loss of time. The floor and roof joists once laid out like the ribs of her body are only memories.