The swan has turned into a shell, the kind of shell on a colorful rug in a preschool. My first memory was of a large room, small mats to take a nap on. And the neighbor who drove me in a pickup truck, the windshield cracked more each day, as if longing for ascension. No colors. No small shells on rugs. We will have a last memory, but only we will know it. Maybe the sky is a repository of final memories. Which is why some of us feel nauseous when flying in an airplane. All the final memories compressed and coming at us at 500 miles per hour. How after decades of mothering, I only remember the dark room where I picked up one child, after her nap. The way the iguana tank lit up the room like a God. How the underside of the iguana was pale, hung over the children’s dreams. How the teacher would let the iguana wander around the room, in the dark, and no one would know. The way the iguana would climb over the children’s backs while they slept. And their dreams multiplied with scales and flies. How I wish this could be my last memory. How I tiptoed, trying not to wake the children all over the floor. Their breathing, the sound of hope hemming itself while eating itself.