The newly-hatched sun slips through the

window, sneaking underneath my eyelids

until they are forced, reluctantly, to open.

The first thing I see is the smooth, pearly

blankness of the ceiling, illuminated by those

mischievous rays. There’s something missing.

What happened to the plastic stars? Did I take

them down? On other days, I can see them

when I squint, but today their faint outlines

have vanished into the light. My heart is

pumping too fast. I push the blankets away and

extend my legs until I’m standing on the bed,

reaching up to touch the stars so I know they’re

still there. My arms are too short. I fall back down

with a sob of relief; I’d forgotten that my glasses

had slept next to me on the bedside table, where

they sleep every night. I take a deep breath, then

put them on. This is how I know that I am awake.