The broken suitcase, my brain. Filled with everything I am. I cannot remember my name and I do not know where I am and I cannot remember his telephone number, the digits have spilled from the suitcase with the noise and mess of an overturned bucket of Legos or Nic’s collection of tiny seashells from China Beach when he was—was he four? They have spilled out because the lock has broken. My son is in danger. I cannot forget it even now, with my brain awash with toxic blood. Nic.
