How far back in the chain to go?I’m penning in an entryon the parchment of public record,creating a statistic for the students of disease,but writing too the final wordon the last page of the bookfor the bereaved. So robust, barrel of a woman,layered in corsets from another century.Her heart went dead December first,but Staphylococci startedseeding her veins three days before,breeding in the purple sorethat showed its color Labor Day.An ulcer on her bottom,branded there by months of sittingstaring at air, still as a Stonehenge rock.We lost her when her mind burned out in May. Should I say dementia killed her? Not enough space for a dissertationon causation and its subtleties.I can’t just call it stoppageof the clock— that’s one frameout of thousands in a documentary.I settle for “Septicemia, Staph.”The statisticians will be pleased,two different categories.And there’s her daughter’s face,and her grandchildren at peace,remembering her as maimedby an invading legion,forgettingher forgettingof their names.