I was too far into my memories to detect the emptiness of the wooden house; the silence that fell to the pigeons perched on the branches of the mango tree outside. The rocking chair, with its comforting creaks, grew quiet behind me, and the warm sensation that permeated my body and relaxed my soul vanished ...

She caches her jewelry Cardboard tubes under her mattress Hidden from faces she can’t remember Haunting her with changed bedsheets While disembodied voices perched on telephone wires Check on her She gripes They’re stealing my things At the liar: Voice too old to be her daughter Sunday – no – Wednesday No How can it ...