I haven’t always had this body – that is, this one, the one I’m living in right now. And yet I can’t clearly remember having any other. The current one is second-hand. That much I know. What became of the other one, I can’t recall.

That body is lost, I think, along with almost every memory of who I was.

Because this body hasn’t always been mine, it’s filled with surprises. Despite its feeling of familiarity and its perfectly natural fit, there are discoveries that I make about its topographies. For example, the other day my husband asked me about a fish tattoo he’d seen on my thigh. As I lay on the bed, I twisted my spine and turned my leg over. I had expected a small goldfish; instead I found an elaborately inked design covering the entire back of my haunch. Stylized swirls of blue water framed a grimacing mer-creature, fierce like a Chinese dragon. The picture was not my doing, but I accept its presence. At least I didn’t have to suffer the pain of its installation.

No, this body is like a rented apartment, and I’m philosophical about its eccentricities, its shortcomings. I am a little curious about my own lack of curiosity, but that in itself seems a feature of my new habitat.

As for the previous tenant, I’ve no idea what became of her. There are no signs of forceful ejection or hasty exodus. There are no slash marks, no holes.

There are some scars (I’ve looked for them because I’ve always liked scars) – some little marks here and there. A small white stripe over the knuckle, a puckered indentation on the outside of the right bicep (vaccination perhaps), a keloid over the big toe.

I’m left-handed now. This was a relief to discover, since I’d assumed I was clumsy, that my right hand was afflicted with numbness. The words had crawled so slowly and awkwardly from my pen. As an experiment, perhaps with a flicker of intuition, I switched hands, and the letters ceased to balk in their progress from mind to pen to page.

I haven’t looked in a mirror yet, but I don’t need to. I know what I will see. I may not look the same, but I will seem the same. My eyes will seek to look behind me, but my head will block the way.

My eyes have never seemed to be mine, anyway. I’ve used them to watch them. They are like stony caves set in dead white planets. Their centers go back into blackness, revealing nothing, suggesting everything. So I know those eyes will be there, without seeking a reflection in a polished surface.

Sometimes I pretend this new body is deaf. This isn’t polite, I know – but people insist on talking to me, asking me questions that I can’t answer. It’s important for things to be quiet; otherwise this gentle floating will end.

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