I hear a creak and look up. She is coming downstairs, singing under her breath. Already rehearsing for choir practice. Cheerful.
Her favourite night of the week.
I know there is no point in speaking. When she has remembered she will let me know what she came in for.
As she came into the room something left her eyes. A sense of purpose, vanishing with the crossing of the threshold. It is eerie to witness. As if the strip of wood on the floor holds the power to wipe memory and the as the foot passes over a surge of energy floods upwards and wipes her thoughts.
She looks at me and frowns, as if irritation with me will bring back the memory. She tuts and leaves the room. The sun catches her silver fox hair, slanting redly from the horizon, across the fields and through the hazy window. She lifts her head, sniffing the air, it always seems to me. As if memory is a smell, lingering.
She hesitates in the glow. There is a pause and then, “Where are my shoes?”
By Anna Max