Fragmentation happens. Our bodies, our dwellings, and the lands beneath us fracture. Often, a little break occurs and we mend it with ease. Rarely, solid ground splits wide open swallowing home and human without a trace. Some ruptures draw out for years with brief moments of reprieve. In these moments, bodies remain tense - postured to brace for the inevitable. When the breaking finally resolves, and we're left with our fragments held in tension, how do we compose ourselves? How do we relax and release the shrapnel of lived experience while retaining a sense of identity? This is a self-portrait. Reflections of my broken childhood home hover, drift, and turn inward. I have handled these numberless times. I love, loath, and labor over them. I call them four-letter words and coat them like pearls to relieve irritation. I make them pretty. I worry down, polish, and bind them for protection as they're lodged into my softest parts. These fragments are wreckage but my care makes them precious.