As I woke, I started planning what I'd write down.
I had a mental image of myself sitting at my old desk,
in my old room where I'd grown up, a room I haven't been to
in years.
In my mind, I wrote down whatever came to mind.
I'd write about how watching old black and white photographs
of strangers
makes me think about my own becoming, the things I once
learned appeared to me
a fraction of a blur, I only know the present me.
I could hear my parents talking downstairs, here and there,
did they just mention my name.
Then my dad started whistling to himself, and I just
listened, my pencil down,
trying to make out the tune. Mom smiling with him,
jerking her arms and moving her palms, as if to dance.
That's what I would write down, almost asleep now,
their fingers and eyes pointing at me, seeing through me.
I had no alarm clock but if I ever did, this is when I'd set
it for.