with our breakfast, gameshows to avoid the sadness of the news, and she tells me I should try out for one, I know so much. She has trouble with words, swapping one for another, especially the ones you might use once a year but never twice a day. Me, I forget facts, more and more it feels, and if I seem smart it’s only that I knew so much, and much remains. Still, I cry inside when she thinks I could compete on a show, sensing the feel of a shroud on my face in the knowing I don’t always know my name.