On our first lesson together, I’d scooted so close to my mother that my toe could wiggle across her shin. She was relaxed, beautiful, and untroubled, but even then it felt temporary, like trying to hold water in my palms. Sometimes she’d be sad, and nothing seemed to make her smile. On this day, though, we were a team, learning together, and she was happy. I could tell by the easy smile on her face. In a rush of emotion that made my throat too tight to speak, I’d dropped my guitar and flung my arms around her. Her hair smelled like cinnamon candy. I’d felt her breathe in, her arms squeezing me in a hug. Thank you, Claire bear. And then she released me, wiping a hand across her eyes before turning back to the music booklet. Let’s see here; first, we have to make sure our guitars are tuned. Her eyes opened wide. How the hell do we do that? There was a pause, a moment when I was sure she’d close the book and say it was a bad idea. I’d gripped my guitar tightly. Instead, she’d started laughing, hunched over her cheap guitar, her shoulders shaking, and the sound was so infectious that I started laughing, too. I have no idea how to tune a damn guitar, Claire bear!

The moment fades and I am left standing in the doorway to my apartment, arms wrapped across my body, heart pushing painfully against my ribs.

“Hey, Ms. Claire.” There’s a little girl seated at my table, backpack splayed on the floor at her feet, looking for all the world like she belongs there. She blows air from her cheeks, making them big and round. It’s comical. “Did you lose your memory again?” She places a hand on her chest. “I am Maree and you are Ms. Claire, and today you are teaching me guitar lessons.”

“Yes, thank you, Maree.” I move directly to my desk, and there is a file folder with the girl’s name spelled out on the tab and my notebook. Satisfied, I turn to the girl, who has a notebook of her own opened in front of her beside a camera, the instant kind that shoots pictures out of a thin slot.

“What’s the camera for?” I ask.

“I thought I could take pictures of me and the guitar and stuff, and then”—she pulls a ringed album out of her backpack, grunting with the effort—“Ms. Kiko had an extra one of these and said I could use it to make a scrapbook thing or something, and that’s how you can really remember me for next time, you know, like how I look and stuff.” She stops abruptly, looking pleased with herself, then picks up the camera and snaps a picture of me. The flash stains my vision with black spots.