in memory to fix their eyes on rooms gone empty without them; they swell like balloons on the airy lips of children. They will find you alone, at night, seated in darkness; say nothing save their names; no greeting, no words of disbelief, only the names. They will sense your trust, taking the breath from the walls, tasting the carpet for salt left from the tears you spilled. You will hear them behind the chair, parting the fabric, arranging themselves in the stuffing, sitting atop one another in your position; the slightest pressure beneath your legs, against your back, will tell you they are there. Speak their names soothingly, time and again; by dawn you will feel frantic motion and then nothing at all. Turn all lights on; open all windows; look for the yellow taint of heat, the slight marks where the cloth has been fused. On the third day, inscribe a thin cross on the seat cushion, and bum the chair where it stands, intoning the names as softly as your voice allows; watch for shapes in the flame, in smoke. Only then will you see them clearly, bursting a moment beyond recognition. ("My clock is down at the jeweler's and I don't know when to eat or when to go to bed or get up, but anyway I live on and on and on.") She was eager to be heard and nibbled on memories, while I listened to the mournful chewing, and scraped the last puddle of