For the years before her death, my grandfather cursed her out, mournfully, as she lay on her deathbed, condemned to a fate of emptiness—“She should just pass on already”—he said, with blankness that rivaled hers—he sighed. It took me years after her death to find out it was I who brought her to such a place, stripped of memories, speech. I fear beyond dread the lack of mobility—and it was I who inflicted it upon her. But, I felt no remorse—not because I was inhuman, but because I just didn’t know. I never knew—and I never will. That’s the curse I bear: naivete, a wall of tongues that guard the truth.