“That’s Big Bird. He’s from a TV show called Sesame Street.”
The sunlight streaming in from the barred window catches the yellow fur of the stuffed toy in my lap. I wish I could feel it beneath my fingertips. I think it would be soft. But I can’t because my wrists are bound by brown leather straps.
So are my ankles to the wheelchair I sit in.
I don’t remember my name.
But I don’t remember much of anything.
I don’t know who I was before. I don’t know who I am now.
What I do know, however, is a name which I can never forget.
Misha.
I don’t know why that name holds so much significance. It just does.
I want to ask so many questions, but I don’t remember the words. So I just sit here, silent, never speaking. It feels wrong to and on cue, my heart begins to ache. It aches for a loss I
