A Hand Towel

It is at night, right before sleep, in beds and homes that are not mine where I begin to lose myself, as though the minute the lights are turned off, I no longer know who I am. I bring my pillow with my week-since-washed pillowcase, hoping the smell of face wash and sweat will somehow remind me I have not changed. I watch a familiar TV show to prove the whole world is not strange. I wear my softest pajamas. I go through my complex nightly routine. It does not work. I click off the light, and I am lost.

As you might imagine, I am writing this from inside darkness. There is no side lamp. The light from this computer is all there is to remind me who I am.

In moments like these I miss my bed as though it is all that stands between me and the abyss of unknowing. But that cannot be true. Yes, the smell here is not my smell, the towels not my towels, the silence not my silence. But could it be that standing between me and the abyss is simply a bed, a hand towel, a familiar silence, and a lamp?

They will never stack high enough to block it out. I am leaning.

Leaning.

I am tired.

This feels like forever.