At a certain point they both start forgetting things. Mr. G forgets his toes are

beautiful. Mrs. G forgets she is not lonely. Occasionally they see a play and pretend

to be grateful for the distraction. They go on long walks together. What’s the name of

the village down there? I don’t know but there seems to be a garden. They eat

hamburgers and french fries in silence. Mr. G can go an entire meal without telling

her there’s mustard on her chin. This is what we call living in the present. Taking

each moment and rubbing it into our cheeks until our face turns a red violence. Mrs.

G stands on the porch. There are some birds, some tall grass. She is quite yellow

and expected. He is plopping through their potato field. Dropping each round body

and shoveling it under with dirt. Mrs. G turns inside to make a sandwich. The day leaves as usual.