I cried in my Granny’s lap many nights when we lived with her. It was me, my daughter Felicity, and my belly pregnant with Florence. I don’t know if it was the smell of her rose perfume or the fabric softener she always used but I was a little girl again, crying over my divorce while she ran her hand over my forehead and hair. My mom used to do that in some way, but her hands were much colder. Always cold actually, and she usually only did it when I was sick. My Granny has skin that feels like the soft dough she used to knead to make bread and cookies. I can still smell the yeast, see the bowl. Oh how I yearn for someone to run their hand over my hair at night. I miss feeling loved. They took my Granny away and I miss her dearly- my island, my rock, my shelter. Now all I have are her things: plastic hangers, lamps, kitchen blinds, laundry baskets… all the shit no one else wanted. I took them as a memento and a material to build our new shelter, our boma here in this scary wild world.