When you wake up as I do every morning, you may go to your closet and retrieve an outfit you picked out the night before. All of this after the alarm clock goes off and the coffee pot is turned on. You brush your teeth. You may shower (outside of last night's routine) every now and again. Each day, the music begins: a Bach chorale or a string quartet by Beethoven. You come into focus. You become. The world awaits.
And at the end of every day, what is left except a few lonely moments in front of a piano, singing a melody that you will forget to write down? Maybe it does not matter much after all. Who is listening? Who will remember?
Anyway, you remembered to write this much down. You made it a point to write this much down because, last night, you dreamed of your grandfather with his big booming laugh atop a riding lawnmower, going far away from you, and there you stood, calling him back, chastising him even for being so careless but really you just wanted another five minutes with him, another five minutes you would never have again. You remembered those moments of being alive, and you woke up with tears in your eyes.
And when you woke up, you wiped your eyes and remembered enough, strangely, to write it all down. You made time for it today because it mattered today, right now, because that is all you have been promised.
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