One Morning you wake to find you can't move your tongue, can't decide what you're supposed to do when you wake up. And so you just lie there watching sunlight lengthen across the bedroom floor, listening to the radio chatter out the news, wondering who you've been, who you might be. After an hour, you get up, open a closet of women's clothes, shoes, and perfumed dresses. You step in there a moment and breathe deeply, trying to remember. You are naked. Do you live alone? Outside looks blurry, too bright, an unfocused photograph of someplace you almost remember. And when the phone rings, you pick it up and try to say hello. Someone far away says mom, says mom, says mother, where have you been? You put the receiver down without hanging it up and then you dress slowly, running your hands across your body, humming softly. Later, you step out into the blurry summer afternoon and walk briskly, eyes focused on the ground.