The amnesiac writing his autobiography
resigns himself to writing only his own eulogy
but finally finds himself barely able to write his own epitaph

I know we went to Vancouver
but only because I have the photographs
I know we raised two children
but only because I can see them

When this house was new I could hear at night
the racheting sound of the ring-necked pheasants
but lately the nights are quiet except for a sound
like a very small animal screaming in the woods