My memory strains. My sister asks, ‘Remember that cake you made last Christmas?’ Nope. 2019 Christmas. I don’t remember a thing. She shows me a photo. ‘Oh, that cake.’ Vaguely. Not really.

My words tangle. ‘Bussel spouts for dinner, looking for a par cark.’ I am dimmer. Christmas cracker jokes pass undeciphered over my purple paper crown. Hand the pork crackling. I’d fail a mini-mental test. Person, woman, television—how did it go again?