Breath. I suppose there was a gathering, a party of sorts. When I was one, my identity was my mother. When she laughed so did I, and when she cried… I enjoyed the spoonfuls of mush she fed me, the tiny jars of turkey or chicken sausages. When I was older, maybe I was five or six, I disappeared for a moment. I was sitting on the floor of the kitchen and then suddenly… “Mother,” I said, “for a minute, I wasn’t here.” “What do you mean?” she asked. “All there was was the tree and the sunlight and the house, but I was gone. I wasn’t here.” “That can’t be,” she said. [But it was so. For one minute, I didn’t exist.]