What the Body Remembers

The numbers came without warning—

32, 18, 6—

surfacing like something I'd swallowed

years ago,

like the body was finally

returning it.

I lay there,

hands on my chest,

not turning anything,

but feeling the phantom motion,

the muscle memory

of spinning the dial,

of the clicking,

of the certainty

that the lock would open.

I'd never thought to forget them.

I'd never thought to store

this knowledge,

but there it was,

still dwelling

in my hands,

in the space between

my thumb and fingers,

in the memory of repetition,

in the thing my body

learned before

my mind

could hold it.

Thirty-two, eighteen, six.

Three times I repeated it,

three times the pattern held,

three times I marveled

at the way

the body is a storage device

for the things

we thought

we'd thrown away,

for the combinations

to locks

we don't open anymore,

for the knowledge

that lives

in the muscle,

not the mind,

that survives

long after

the need

is gone.