I woke up having forgotten which way to turn the key to my door.

It was as though somebody had taken apart pieces of me while I had been asleep, only to put me back together, like a puzzle; and in the process had misplaced one of the pieces. So irrelevant it had been, that the puzzle looked complete enough without it, and the solver just walked away shrugging.

Or maybe it was an accident on a microscopic scale, concerning a couple trillion neurons and synapses, and a single fallen martyr.

It was the strangest feeling, a singular brick knocked out of me. An abrupt disrupting of everyday rhythm, a river suddenly plucked from the ground and shaken from one end like straightening a bedsheet. I wonder if there was something I did to induce this strange phenomenon. Did I sleep too little, or too much? Did I hit my head accidentally or grind my teeth a little too hard? I might have dwelled in that intermediate space between sleep and wakefulness, where sight is blurry and breaths are scarce.

I may wake up tomorrow with a new loss, one that must be unearthed and stolen from deep within my bones, one that hides in gestures, in my body; the treasure chest.

I may forget

the time my body wakes itself up each morning.

Or the persistence of morning light that fills the room and pours into my eyelids.

I may forget

the feeling of the weighted blanket that holds me in its cocoon

how much I yearn for that weight on my body that is without purpose or promise.

I may forget

to put people on pedestals.

the quick short breaths I take before entering a room full of people.

I may forget

how my handwriting betrays me, as I put down thoughts to solidify and validate,

the letters that sense my uncertainty and begin to tremble and shrink.

I may forget

the way I dissolve my own speech, garnishing my lines with ‘uhs’ and ‘ums’,

sprinkled like pepper on lemonade, only ever allowing the listener small sips.

First published in July 2023