Counting to One Thousand

This woman sits down next to me, starts telling me things about myself she shouldn’t know. My name, the hospital where I was born, the time I was standing on the beltway shoulder and thought about just walking out. I should’ve been freaked out but wasn’t. She was old, wore too many clothes, and her body creaked. She mentioned my first day of kindergarten, when I stood outside after the bell rang and cried. I said to her, I could already count to one thousand then, remembering my teacher who walked me into class holding my hand. Yes, I know, she said, grasping my hand, her fingers like plastic pens.