By Russell Edson
A father with a huge eraser erases his daughter. When he finishes there’s only a red smudge on the wall.
His wife says, where is Amyloo?
She’s a mistake, I erased her.
What about all her lovely things? asks his wife.
I’ll erase them too.
All her pretty clothes? . . .
I’ll erase her closet, her dresser–shut up about Amyloo! Bring your head over here and I’ll erase Amyloo out of it.
The husband rubs his eraser on his wife’s forehead, and as she begins to forget she says, hummm, I wonder whatever happened to Amyloo? . . .
Never heard of her, says her husband.
And you, she says, who are you? You’re not Amyloo, are you? I don’t remember your being Amyloo. Are you my Amyloo, whom I don’t remember anymore? . . .
Of course not, Amyloo was a girl. Do I look like a girl?
. . . I don’t know, I don’t know what anything looks like anymore. . .