Before I Remember

I shift and stir, untangling myself from the covers. The covers that kept me warm through the cold night are smothering me as room warms and the sun rises. There is a song playing in my head, and I am singing along to its melody. It escapes me the more it replays. I grasp at the scenes in my head. They come so quickly I can't tell if they are memories or dreams. I think I had a dream last night. But it disappears the moment I try to recall it.

My body is stiff and barely there. When I wake up, I don't know where I came from. My face is scrunched up and my eyes are too dry to open. I pull myself up and sit up on the side of my bed. My mind is loading like an old computer and my memories are waiting to be downloaded. I am just a body for now. No identity, no past, no memories. Please standby while your computer reloads. Time is paused, and I am at peace.

I open my eyes barely, gazing out at the door to my room. Any moment now.

Before I remember that those moments are past. That the sounds I've gotten so used to hear will never reach my ears again. The tiny, excited footsteps that have always come to wake me are just echoes in my mind. The sound of you greeting me excitedly as if you hadn't seen me in an eternity. The way you pounce on me, the first thing in the morning, to lick off any trace of dust on my face.

In my waking moments, there is a peace. Before I remember, you are somewhere I'll always miss.