I remember the rain. How it felt, how it smelled, how it pattered against the metal roof in its chaotic song.
I remember you. Your voice, your touch, your sweet crooked smile as you pulled me close. You worried when they made me work late.
I remember my mother and father, their love, their nurture, their growing concern about that strange black car I kept mentioning.
I remember what it was like to be alive. The sting of pain, lungs burning while I caught my breath, my racing heart, the warmth of my blood.
Yet I can't remember my name.