Waking, I Remember

Waking, I Remember

I wake before my name arrives,

before the story gathers its shoes.

Light is already speaking

through the thin places of the room.

For a moment,

I am not history.

I am breath

remembering how to breathe.

Something in me stirs—

not urgency, not fear,

but a quiet recognition,

like finding my own handwriting

in the margins of a life.

I remember

I was never missing.

I was listening.

The body stretches

as if it knows the way back

without a map.

The heart opens its windows

to whatever is here.

Memory returns gently,

not as a demand

but as an offering:

You are still you.

You have always been.

I rise,

not into becoming,

but into belonging—

to this moment,

to this breath,

to the simple truth

that I am awake

and I remember.

— Flower InBloom