We can’t bring in our phones,
the armed security says it’s to
protect the patients from photos,

that they technically can’t consent,
that it’s a real shame we can’t
take pictures with our loved ones

to share with our other
loved ones who want to know
how our loved ones are doing.

He says this with one hand
on his gun, eyeing us as we
empty our pockets into a locker:

no sharp objects, nothing
that can record in any capacity,
for the patients’ safety.

My dad tells the desk we’re here
to see Ramon Antonio Henriquez,
the first time I hear his real name,

my uncle, whom I call uncle
and not tío, because
I do not know him.

Only ourselves and the food
my dad bought at a Dominican spot
on the way make it through

the heavy metal doors
that need to be buzzed open
and lock loudly behind us.

The visiting area
looks like the break room
of a large chain store,

personalityless, a bland sterility
but dirty at the same time,
a TV in the corner

showing the Giants lose,
the orderlies gathered around
the TV watching the Giants lose.

We wait and we wait.
My dad says he hasn’t seen
his brother in a few years,

says Kiko has an incredible
memory. The mangu
starts to grow cold.

Then, through the doors:
an old man on a walker
bent almost in half,

moving in slow motion.
My dad’s little brother
looks decades older than him.

A nurse guides him
to our table and the drugs
in his voice ask my dad,

Who are you? Who is he?
It’s hard watching my dad
explain to his little brother.

Something is misaligned
in Kiko’s brain: he remembers
his brother Frank

but can’t reconcile
that knowledge with the person
sitting next to him,

putting an arm around him
asking if he’s eaten today.
Who here asks that and actually

cares about the response?
My dad asks what they feed him here.
Oatmeal, he says.

And what else? No answer.
My dad lays out the food
and Kiko shovels it

into his toothless mouth,
asking if my dad cooked it.
My dad asks Kiko what happened

to his teeth,
wiping his mouth and chin.
Kiko answers by nodding towards

the orderlies watching TV,
habichuelas dripping
from his trembling lips

onto already-stained pants.
Again he asks my dad
if he cooked this.

My dad looks over
at the orderlies and says
nothing. Kiko asks about ____

and my dad says they died
thirty years ago. Kiko asks
about ____ and my dad

says they died twenty years ago.
Kiko asks about ____ and my dad
says he doesn’t remember

who that is, looks at me
with raised eyebrows and
says, See? My little brother

has an excellent memory.
He remembers more than me!
Kiko doesn’t smile,

just keeps slurping
and recollecting
his checklist of the dead,

unfazed by their absence,
by having no landing space
for his memories.

My dad says Kiko
used to keep a notebook
of his life, of everything

that ever happened to him,
and memorized it, kept
writing it in his head

when the notebook was lost,
left in the Dominican Republic
on his journey to the States.

Do you remember?
Kiko stops eating and says,
Yes, puts his hands on the table.

This is the story
of Ramon Antonio Henriquez
born 1959.

A pause, he stares wide-eyed
as though scared to say what comes next.
He starts again:

This is the story
of Ramon Antonio Henriquez.
And then nothing.