The Forgetful City

It began with a cafe.

One morning, I walked the usual route to work. Past the iron fence, across the cracked intersection, left at the place that always smelled like burnt coffee. Only, the café wasn’t there.

There was no rubble. No signs of construction. Just a giant dirt square where the Mint Cafe should’ve been, as if the building had, odd as it sounds, gotten up and walked away.

No chalkboard menu.

No outdoor chairs to enjoy the breeze.

No aroma of cinnamon or milk froth.

I asked a man standing nearby if he knew what had happened.

“What cafe?”

That was the first time.

Then the hospital disappeared.

Not all at once.

First the east wing. Then the parking lot.

Then the patients stopped showing up.

Then the nurses.

My sister worked there.

At least, I think she did.

She wasn’t in my contacts anymore.

Our family photos had awkward gaps.

Arranged poses with one person missing,

arms curved around a person-shaped absence.

I told my father.

“Who?”

“Your daughter,” I said. “My sister.”

He looked at me, quiet,

as if he wanted to believe,

but didn’t.

One day, my name was gone from my ID badge.

Then from the lease on my apartment.

I had told myself at a very young age, that I’d leave before the city forgot me entirely.

I’d leave for London.

Or Paris.

Maybe even Las Vegas.

I packed a suitcase

and stood at the station.

There were no trains leaving.

There never had been.

And maybe they were right.

Maybe there never was a cafe.

Maybe I never had a sister.

Maybe I was never here at all.