Sleepwalking Jeff Friedman
My lover sleepwalks after midnight, leaving a trail of open doors behind
her. If I clasp her arm to bring her back, she stops momentarily to lift
my hand off and continues on as if I had never touched her. She has yet to
fall down steps or stumble on the sidewalk. She parts the night as if
wading through shallow water. When a car comes, she waits on the corner.
Sometimes I walk beside her to see the brightness of her face as if the
moon is lighting it. "Where are we going," I ask. "I'll know when we get
there," she answers, but she's not awake. And sometimes I follow her to
see if she will wait for me, but she just keeps going, no matter how far I
fall behind. At such times, I hurry to catch up, fearing that a tree might
reach for her with its long limbs or a dark bird might snatch her with its
beak or the chunks of a dying star might crash down on her, but nothing
like that happens. Instead, she stops and gathers the wind in her mouth,
blowing into the darkness until it is even darker. Then she follows the
shadows through the open doors, and I close them behind her.
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