The things lost

One.
I lose a grandma three months
after coming into the world.
She has me in her arms once.
I'm not taught her name.

Five.
I miss a school day in the hospital
to get a reminder stitched on my forehead:
children do not understand their legs well enough
to try and run as fast as leopards.

Six.
I lose my first milk tooth.
I throw it on the roof and
make a wish that
never comes true.

Twenty-one.
I lose a boyfriend to an earthquake in Turkey.
Rescue teams terminate the search.
My heart is never recovered
from under the debris.

Twenty-five.
I lose control over my mind.
I'm sad too often to know.
I'm prescribed
happiness pills.

Thirty-four.
I lose my voice for three days
after an argument.
I remain silent for six months.
Speech is compromised for life.

Thirty-six.
I understand
the things lost
never belonged to me.
I myself do not.