She ran long baths. Boiling hot, drawn about an hour ahead — enough time for the water to cool to exactly the right temperature. Enough time to move from one busy moment into a moment that was entirely hers.

I didn't know I inherited this until she was long gone. Six years into a home she never got to see, one thing was non-negotiable — a spa bath. I run it boiling hot. About an hour ahead. Just like she did.

Christina Sharpe writes about the wake — the track left on the water's surface by everything that has come before us. Hortense Spillers gave us language for what history strips from the body — its interiority, its right to feeling, its claim to be held. My mother in her bath was that claim. She didn't call it anything. She just ran it.

There is something about the water. The inheritance of a gesture. The sensation of heat on skin as a reminder of what is still alive and being nourished.

The Theresa. Collection begins there. Bath pieces made by hand, made with care, made to hold that hour — the transition, the solitude, the quiet act of coming home to yourself.

Cornbread. Collections. Atmospheres for each room of the home.

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