To go missing from oneself, the type of curse reserved
for fairy tales. My aunt at forty-five is absent at this table.
She has to be reminded again about dinner. She knows what
hunger is, may never forget that, but she is always neglecting
something. Although so am I, come to think of it, the recycling
growing in the bin. The appropriate word often alludes me.
We try patience as she hunts for our names in her memory, grows
angry in the attempt. Confused by this child or that, her great
nieces, two years ago she traveled miles for them, now she does
not know them from any other child. I wonder if she knows
that she has lost herself, though maybe she hasn’t yet.