It was a room without a heart, nothing to center it except the bed. There was a ventilator, a heart monitor, machines to keep track of slow-motion death. The daughter approaches, and she can’t help it, she thinks No, she’s faking it. She just wants me to bend again, to touch my toes so she can laugh when my pants split up the seam.

But the monitor beeps, and the ventilator makes its discreet whoosh, and the mother is still lying there with her eyes closed. Her hands are limp and do not move. Her head is turned off to the side and her hair is patchy.

Don’t remember. You won’t be able to do this if you remember.