(a play on a poem by Edson)
A father with a huge eraser erases his 9/11. When he finishes there's only a red smudge on the wall.
His wife says, where is 9/11?
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 9/11! Bring your head over here and I'll erase 9/11 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 9/11 . . .
Never heard of her, says her husband.
And you, she says, who are you? You're not 9/11, are you? I don't remember your being 9/11. Are you my 9/11, whom I don't remember anymore? . . .
Of course not, 9/11 was a girl. Do I look like a girl?
. . . I don't know, I don't know what anything looks
like anymore. . .