Remembering.

Please enjoy my first attempt at a short story.

I don't remember much. The basics, of course. Walking, reading, breathing. That's about it. I don't remember all these people who claim that they knew me, or the ones who say they are my family. Except for my Dad, I remember him and that he is gone. I remember missing him, and I think I still do.
I don't remember what I like to do, who my friends are. I like reading now, I'm not sure if I used to.
I don't talk. It's not that I can't. I don't want to. Cause of all the things I don't remember, I remember my voice. High and pretty. I remember singing, all sorts of songs. I remember people telling me how good I was, and how much I loved it. I'm afraid if I open my mouth, just once, that my voice will be gone. That I won't remember how to sing or hold a note. I'm afraid that the one joy I do remember will be lost.
A man comes to visit me. He's tall and handsome. He has a deep voice and broad shoulders. He won't tell me who he is, but I've overheard the nurses saying he loves me, and I use to love him. He holds my hand, it feels warm and familiar. Like he was an important part of my life but isn't anymore. Like he's missed me. He cries sometimes, and I want to ask why, but I don't. He reads to me. I like that. He tells me I used to love the book, Gone with the Wind. I like it just fine now, I think I like hearing him read it more. His voice is so deep, it calms me and almost makes me forget. Forget, something I've been doing a lot of.
My family brings me dinner. I like them. My mom is nice, but she cries a lot cause I don't remember her at all. I try to make her laugh with the funny pictures I draw or the silly poems I write. She brought me a journal that she said was mine, I guess I really liked to write too. The poems are good, but they make me feel bad since I can't write like that anymore. I like my brothers, there are two. They tell me about what we used to do, things like make sticker books, play Nintendo games and trade Goosebump books. They don't mind that I don't talk. They are okay with the nods of my head. My oldest brother keeps telling me about all the things we are going to do when I get out of here. He says I liked fishing and that he'll take me on his boat. He feels more like a friend than a brother. I wonder if I liked him this much before?
Then I have to ask myself, before what? I'm still not sure why I'm here, in this hospital. Or why I can't remember anything, or anyone. The doctors tell me about my brain, but it doesn't make much sense to me. My brothers tell me my mom wants me to remember it on my own, and not be frightened by what they tell me.
I'd be fine with that honestly, only if I wasn't having so much trouble with remembering.