Millicent chronicles a loss. Fechik grieves, but she also resurrects, bringing life to legacy—her mother, grandmother, and the author herself: "& I, part of this / slow trickle, soft & / waiting for the day // I am washed down / a drain // telling my own daughter / to quell her grief." Through anecdotes, the haze of memory, Fechik honors her lineage. There is sorrow and remembrance; dreams of other worlds; natural imagery, anchored by horses, fruit, the language of trauma. There is darkness and light, stones worrying each other clean. There are questions asked, answers withheld, and through it all, an understanding: the people we love never truly leave us. "My grandmother still sings to me," Fechik writes in “In September.” "Something soft before / the sun goes dark."

- Brianna Albers, author of Why I’m Not Where You Are