Somewhere. Out there. Is a son. He has her cells. He looks through her eyes, speaks through her mouth with words she taught him to say decades ago. Her cells go on a walk. Her cells play guitar through the fingers that once fit in the palm of her hand.
Somewhere. In there. Is a mother. She has his cells. His cells rumble around. In the brain beyond far gone. His cells set up base camp at the base of her spine, resting for a while on the hip. Lurking. Losing. Leaving.