She was old when
my brother, who was twelve,
shot  his toe off
by accident,
conditioned as he was
to place the barrel
of his single shot
Stevens on his shoe
to relaoad.

At the clinic,
she was the nurse.
When the doctor came in
to remove what was left of the toe
next to his big toe,
my eyes were glued on hers,
for my brother was between us,
blood spurting straight up.
It was easier to fix on her eyes
than on my brother’s misery.

When she was old, wrinkled,
and we were in the same restaurant,
she asked me if I knew who she was,
and I said I did without hesitation.
She thought I knew her because her voice was
the same, but I had forgotten that voice.
I told her I recognized her eyes.
She was sore surprised.
I retold the story about my brother’s toe.

She had forgotten that–all of it.