I used to write, and I remember that. Now I make copy, job descriptions, a multitude of emails, notes for parenting. I write jumbled intentions and flashing concepts that leave.

I write with migraines for 2 weeks a month. My left side quakes and gives — ankle collapse, shoulder pins, numbs then slags. Speech slurred; neurological “events.” My words and letters inverse.

In my dream last night, I tried 5 times to tell a doctor the numbers on a board were “867.” By the third try she dripped apology eyes at me, meaning: you’ve already failed.

My brain shorts and thinking is like ascending ashes, quitting in the heat. My vision cuts gray, noises flatten. I can’t pick anything out. Noises pitch the same. My child’s face goes the same shade as shadows. I can’t see him.

This is cost.