A stretch of copper light posts stand tall with American flags on the road we drive on. I salute them all with my shaking, pale hand. I remember when my husband came home from the Korean War; he said you have to always salute the flag, because people sacrificed things for that flag that can’t be named. I assumed it was those unsaid things that drove my brother to not be able to return home after joining the service. Those unsaid things that drove my uncle to drinking with his dog tags on. But I think these things happened a long time ago. I think they were at the beginning of something, and I’m at the end.

I’m pretty sure that my son is in the driver’s seat, and we’re driving back home from church. On the other hand, that could be my grandson taking me to my doctor’s appointment. I do have my bag of medications in my lap, so that would make the most sense.

No, I won’t ask him. To ask is to be a burden. And I am independent.

***

This rocking chair is too hard. There used to be pink, paisley pillows on the back and seat once. Whatever happened to those, only Rachel would know.

Where did she go? Where did my daughter go?

This woman in front of me won’t stop crying. She is gray, and she has bags under her eyes. Her clothes are awful, ragged sweat suits with puppy textiles on the chest. I don’t like her. She seems unrefined. She’s holding some form of gray sludge in a bowl. It smells awful. Still, this pitiful sight seems familiar.

“Please, Mom,” this woman says to me. “You’ve got to eat! You’re going to faint again if you don’t eat. Just try some yogurt.”

This woman has no right calling me her mother. This can’t be my Rachel. My Rachel is beautiful. She’s young. She’ll be graduating from college in just two months.

“Please, Mom. Just try to eat,” she says.

“I’m not eating that,” I say. “It smells like dog feces. Did you make that?”

The audacity of this woman, thinking I’d eat something like that. The woman looks at me without anger, without the despair that once, for some reason, washed over her face. She grabs the bowl of whatever gray stuff she wants me to eat, most definitely poison, and throws it on the floor.

“If you want to starve, then starve,”she said, turning her back toward the kitchen.

It is my kitchen. She’s cooking this cheap stuff in my kitchen?

No, we are at Coney Island, with the seagulls. I want a hot dog. Oh, I miss those hot dogs. I miss those seagulls.

No, we are camping in the mountains. Horses are neighing somewhere. Blue things are flying above. My husband is anxious that we are going to be taken by bears or serial killers or something.

I don’t want to eat.

She can’t make me eat.

That shit of a nurse can’t make me eat. She can’t control me.

Where is Rachel?

***

Charley is my son. Jake and Ollie are my grandsons. Rachel is my daughter. Emily is my granddaughter. She is married to Tim. They live in that cramped place. They work for UUR, you know.

Sam is my husband.

No.

Sam is my son. He lives in the city. I worry about him. All he does is play video games in that apartment of his. He never visits.

Charley is my grandson. He works for UUR, you know. He’s in their marketing department. He worked on something called Britevoice, he said. He helps advertisements get into people’s heads. It’ll go over great.

No.

Rachel is my grandson.

No.

Nothing is adding up. Why can’t I remember?

I won’t ask them. I won’t ask them.

***

Tonight, I remember some things. It’s there, it’s always there. Yet I can’t reach it.

Sometimes when the power is out (or off? I can’t remember) I can see the moon reflecting off the sea. They let me stay by the sea. They gave me special accommodations because of my son. He works for UUR, you know.

They’re out there standing by the sea, crying to go home. But they can’t go home. Poseidon won’t let them. They stand by my window and tell me of when they were still mermaids and mermen and when they were happy.

I remember when I was happy, too. I remember looking into the eyes of my children and imagining just what futures they’d have. Their bright blue eyes looked into mine and I felt a connection that was beyond words or time or space. I hope they had good futures. It’s not my place to remember the specifics anymore. But that’s ok.

All I can do now is look out at the moon and talk to the merfolk. Do you want to hear a secret they told me? You can’t tell anyone else. They told me about another place, a world beyond the moon. They said their people lived there first, swimming in seas at the foothills of impossible mountains.

I hear its name and I don’t know what it means. Yaladan, they say. The word doesn’t feel right on my tongue, as if it’s not meant for a tongue as crude as mine. But I say it, and I imagine flying over the seas where the merfolk wish to be, and over the crammed cities, and into the mountains of old and now and what is to be.

If there is a mirror out there that would let me see what I would be in twenty years. I would only see gray dust floating in the star scape of God’s grand lands. So I thank God there is no mirror.

I don’t think my dust will go to the places of light. I don’t think I would reach this Yaladan.

I’ve made my soul too heavy. With fighting with Jack, my husband, and leaving too many things unsaid before bedtime. Going to bed angry one too many times. I’ve made my soil heavy with the worrying of the world, filled of the what if’s and the why’s.

With the worrying about what managers said, and if my idols would be impressed with what I’ve become. What would I say now to those I grew up adoring? What would I say now to anyone?

I don’t think I would reach Yaladan. I’ve become too upside down with wanting. Now I am always upside down. The world of which I am right side up is long gone. I now sway in the sea of confusion of which my mind has poured.

I will have to live with it, until I don’t have to any longer.

***

I don’t know much anymore, but today is a Thursday. Thor’s Day.

The man I told you about greeted me in the hallway today. His smile was wide, and he had a top hat on. He seemed to have a young soul. The man offered me a blank book. I looked at him and was immediately angry.

“What kind of book is this? It’s empty!” I said to him. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“I’m Syken, and I just want to help. Tonight, put the book under your pillow. Your memories will come back, but only in the book. You can do what you want with it then. Read it. Give it to your children. Whatever you want.”

He then gave me a hug. Without asking me, by the way. I would’ve said no.

But I have this book now. It’s heavy, and it’s stupid because it’s empty. Not even any lines on the paper. But the cover is a green leather, and I like the color of green.

I’ll put it under my pillow. I miss my memories so badly. They must be good, otherwise I wouldn’t miss them.

I hope I can see them again. I hope I can see you again, real soon.