At some point she began talking to the walls.
Really, she said, she was speaking to the former residents of her house, whose shadow-selves had been imprinted thereupon almost like a mural only she could see.
An animated, techni-color mural.
We’re never sure if we should humor her, or try to coax her awareness back to the here and now. The truth is, it’s harder for us than it is for her, because she doesn’t register the devastation on our faces when she fails to recognize us.
“Why aren’t you in school, sweetie?” she asks.
“I’m thirty,” I remind her.