It started with my fingernails.  

          I dropped my two oldest off for school and waved to them as they sprinted off. Five fingernails, the pink paint from my last manicure halfway gone. My youngest had to be dropped off on the other side of the building with the other kindergarten students. I pulled around the parking lot and as I waved to Tim, I saw only four fingernails. The one on my middle finger was gone.  

          I poked at the spot where it had been, and I could still feel it there, hard and smooth, but I couldn't see it. It had become invisible somehow.  

          I swallowed my panic. It was an easy enough fix. I would paint them when I got home.  

          The other nine disappeared one by one in the coming days. I’d had no time to touch up the paint. Tim had caught a cold. Larry took my hand one night and examined it.  

          “Did they fall out?”  

          “No,” I said. “I’m not sure how it happened.” I’d hoped they’d have come back by now.  

          He tutted over my hand. “You should make a doctor’s appointment about it.” 

          I added “find fingernail doctor” to the to-do list.  

          My breasts were next. I still filled out my shirts, retained my silhouette, but when I removed my bra, I couldn’t see them. I thought about something my obstetrician had said a few years ago.  

          “The tissue goes away with time. That’s why you see older women who are saggier,” she’d motioned downwards with a cupped hand. “With breast tissue, you use it or lose it.” 

          I’d finished breastfeeding Tim four years ago. That put me in the “lost it” category, I guessed.  I could live with it, regardless, until they showed

themselves again.  

          Larry did an about face after seeing me get out of the shower, his cheek half-covered with shaving cream. “Did you ever go see that doctor?” 

          I grabbed a towel to hide myself. “I’ve been meaning to make

an appointment.” 

          He grunted, and resumed his shaving, considering the matter settled.  

          My toes disappeared next. Everyday in the shower, I saw less of them. I tried rubbing them before bed, under the covers. Maybe, if I just showed them a little tenderness and care, I could nourish them back. 

          After coming inside from shoveling snow, I shed my wet socks in the laundry room. Larry came in and saw, his brow furrowing at the space between my damp pant legs and the floor.   

          “You’re letting yourself go.” 

          I glared at him and my expression must have startled him. He backed away, throwing up his hands in surrender.  

          By spring, my shoulders were gone. There was only space between my collar bones and my arms. I couldn’t look at my reflection anymore. I wore constant cardigans to hide the gaps. I wanted to look whole, even if I couldn’t be. The kids didn’t seem to notice, even when I wore tank tops. It was like they saw through me. I suppose they did.  

          By summer, my whole body had disappeared except for my hands. I was grateful. My hands were essential. I needed them to tie shoes, to pack lunchboxes, to press band aids onto cuts. Without my hands, I would

be nothing.  

          In the shower this morning, I ran a hand over my body, from where my unseen breast would be down to my stomach and my thigh. I couldn’t feel anything. I think they might be gone.