I remember the fine pleats of your tunic, how they found you among the funerary rags. Your bicep, evident. The crease of your inner elbow. The perfect press that flattened each fold; a funny lie. You were wayward, you wallowed.
I remember pouring buckets of hot water onto ice until your body emerged. That you were preserved in your string skirt, hung low on the hips. Something alkaline made the threads rich, something made you kin.