I want to live again as someone who holds no memory of me.
Reborn in a young man’s body and with a young man’s mind. I wish it was not that man but I who’d known Nora, back when she was closer to a beginning than an end. I can’t imagine ever writing the kind of letters a woman would preserve for sixty years. Inside lay a small booklet, a diary in letters. The lid flew to the side and the door of a secret compartment popped loose at the bottom. It was a silly find, one that belongs in romance novels, not in real life and old age. I found his letters to my wife, from long before she knew me, when she was still sixteen. Although I might be jealous of a man who’s sixty years dead. Last night I pissed my bed and who knows what joy tonight will bring? I am in no way original or new. I call my daughter by my grandson’s name and I remember the day I met my wife much better than yesterday, or today. I am a walking pain, hips, shoulders, knees and elbows. I was born just twenty years after we got rid of the Turks.
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