Dear Reader

You have forgotten it all. You have forgotten your name, where you lived, who you loved, why. I am simply your nurse, terse and unlovely I point to things and remind you what they are: chair, book, daughter, soup. And when we are alone I tell you what lies in each direction: This way is death, and this way, after a longer walk, is death, and that way is death but you won’t see it until it is right in front of you. Once after your niece had been to visit you and I said something about how you must love her or she must love you or something useless like that, you gripped my forearm in your terrible swift hand and said,she is everything— you gave me a shake—everything to me. And then you fell back into the well. Deep in the well of everything. And I stand at the edge and call: chair, book, daughter, soup.