Some Slippery Afternoon

A silver watch you've worn for years is suddenly gone, leaving a pale white stripe blazing on your wrist. A calendar, marked with appointments you’ve meant to keep, disappears, leaving a faded spot on the wall where it hung. You search the house, yard, trash cans for weeks, but never find it. One night the glass in your windows vanishes, leaving you sitting in a gust of wind. You think how a leg is suddenly lost beneath a subway train, or taxi’s wheel, some slippery afternoon. The child you've raised for years, combing each lock, tailoring each smile, each tear, each valuable thought, suddenly changes to a harlequin, joins the circus passing in the street, never to be seen again. One morning you wash your face, look into the mirror, find the water has eroded your features, worn them smooth as a rock in a brook. A blank oval peers back at you, too mouthless to cry out.