On the morning Of, I went outside with the thick utility scissors and above the bin outside the backdoor (where, on winter nights in the dim yellow light I remember another moment), I cut up the last memory I have. The rubber is tiny and stiff and I struggle and I can’t remember now if I was crying as I did it or I was hard and cold. I don’t know if it was hurting so much to cut because it was so small to cut into pieces or because it felt like I was cutting out a piece of me. Maybe it was both.
And when it was done, I knew it was done.