I write her name with a permanent black sharpie inside the back of her shirts, like preparing to send a child off to summer camp I wish she was going there, to play, and run in the woods, giggle as she jumps into a big blue lake, her curly blond hair blowing in the wind, surrounded by laughing children, singing songs and playing games, things she never had the chance to do and now never will She tries to plays bingo now, which she said she never would and listens to the Salvation Army sing hymns on Sunday. She imagines screams in the night, fights in the hall, people destroying the building. She is always cold. They roll her, change her diaper her sagging empty skin, once full and powerful, now cleaned, wiped, powdered. She sits in a wheelchair and looks out at the trees, not quite sure where she is, no lake, no laughter, no running, no more projects, plans, trips, or workshops No more longing for happiness, or fulfillment, or the ultimate experience Or longing for Love, which was abandoned a very long time ago, I need some money, I need to go shopping, maybe I'll steal a car, or hitchhike. Okay you do that, not knowing what else to say, tired of trying to explain, changing the subject, evading, lying. Why can't I walk, Why can't I find a little place to live, why can't I remember, lies, yes many lies I write her name it is the easiest part of taking care of her — Lisa