At midnight, the world loses one thing.
On the first day, yellow disappears. Bananas are gray, taxis are gray, and everyone says this color never existed.
On the second day, sneezes disappear.
On the third day, the boy who used to buy fried dough sticks on credit at the street corner disappears. His mother says, "What son? I never had one."
But I remember everything.
When I say "egg yolk," they laugh and say I made up the word. When I sneeze, my mother digs out medicine bottles from over a decade ago and asks if I'm sick again.
Again.
Seventeen years ago, my dad disappeared the same way. I woke up, and the whole world said I had no father.
In the past seventeen years, I've been through this only seven times, and every time, I failed to stop it.
This time, one thing disappears each day.
Later, I finally found the notebook that erases things.
On the 2007 page, a child's handwriting says: My dad.
At the end of the list, the name circled twice is my younger sister's.
Forty minutes until midnight.
