There is a filmstrip running in my mind like on one of those clackety-clack projectors I used to watch in science class. Only instead of answering a question that I never asked about how plants eat sunlight or the size of dolphins’ brains. I am left with images of myself shot from an omniscient perspective. I can hear the laughter of my friend who died alone as we all die, as I will someday die, as I am dying now. I’m not sure what I’m saying to make her laugh. My words aren’t captioned. I’m not that person anymore. There are other faces burned from the film blurred by drownings, other cancer. Does it matter? They say I survived when my mother died. I suppose I did. Though daily I am diminished like a faded newspaper on a park bench on which I will someday sit when the reel is finally empty and my lips sound out words I can no longer read.

Memory is frigid water and as we dive through the years, the fence remains unchanged, generation to generation, immutable. Mesh blots the sun. We have lived and died beneath this latticed shadow. The farmer claims the fence protects us from crossing the road—but we hear instead, the voice of the crows, who say the road is freedom. They have flown its length and not seen a single dead chicken. If it were dangerous, there would be bodies. So, we continue to peck with clipped wings until the blue pours from the sky until the end of days.

The noise of the chair falling to the ground compresses and fades into a single point in space. The headrest rises to your hand, and you lower yourself to sit again. Smudges of mascara race up your cheeks to settle around shining eyes. With a fork, you remove food from your mouth, and like a conductor reconstruct the medley of unchewed almond-crusted salmon with garlic crisp potatoes. I unclear my throat so that I cannot say, “We need to talk.”