There's a hole in my head from the surgery, not a large hole, but large enough for a tall person to peek down into it and see the soup simmering in pots on the stovetop. The vapors rise from the hole, spreading around me until trees, houses and cars look a little blurry. I zigzag around the block numerous times trying to navigate a straighter path. Soon, I'm in a thick fog of my own, and the neighbors walking their dogs or jogging with headphones embedded in their ears like batteries don't see me. Memories float out of the hole in my head like filaments of hair or dust particles catching the light. What were they? I wish I knew. So much is being lost that when I get home, I stuff the hole with cotton pads and tape over it. But the soup begins to boil, the tape comes loose, and the memories pitch themselves up, evaporating in the bright air.


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