And here is one possibility.

photo of me by not me, Flatbush at St. Marks in Brooklyn, a few days ago, 2011

One day a woman will walk out of a restaurant in Texas after finishing a nondescript breakfast and single espresso in a porcelain cup. It will be a neighborhood she rarely visits, so when the coolness of the air hits her, she will imagine she is no longer in her hometown but somewhere she visited alone in South America in her twenties. She will untie the sweater from around her waist and completely forget who gave it to her. She will imagine she gave it to herself.

At the corner she will wait for the light to change and then cross the street near but not on the crosswalk. A woman much older than she will pass in the opposite direction; they will make eye-contact by accident and smile half a moment too late. She will enter an antique store with a handmade sign of two people's first names separated by an over-large asterisk. Attached to the door, a bell will tinkle almost in the notes of a song she has forgotten. The tune will make her think of a color, a piece of cloth, the view out of a circular window.

She will touch a set of matching plates and pull an LP out of its cover to check for scratches. She will unsuccessfully picture her sister wearing an apron from the 1920's, its yellow lace curved like a shoreline around the edges. She will watch the motionless hands of a clock labeled "Works Fine!" and rub a suede hat against her cheek.

There will be a dresser. It will be painted white and pushed against a cement wall. It will have eight drawers -- she will count them -- but two of the knobs will be missing. She will want to know what is in those two drawers. Hand, finger, nail, nail file, keys -- none of these will open the drawer. She will not ask for help. She will tilt the dresser forward toward her, one knob pressed against her belly, one edge propped against her knee. At the same time the two drawers will move mere centimeters, enough for her to open them if she is careful.

The first drawer will contain a photo album. I know this album; it was stolen from me in 1999. It is bound in purple velvet, ALBUM engraved into its side. There will be no photos in it, although a drawing torn from a newspaper will possibly still be taped to the second-to-last page. She will put this down by her feet because she wants to buy it. It doesn't have a price, but she will not care what it costs. And then she will open the second drawer. Nothing is in the second drawer. 

Except for a photo of a woman standing in a doorway. And that woman will be me.