She sleepwalks again. Open-eyed REM. Reaches for door handles that aren’t there, pushes at walls and panels. Quiet, so quiet. What wakes you is shuffling of feet, soft pitter patter of hands along the walls, as though she’s searching for a hidden lever that will open a trap door.
* * *
She simply guides her back into her room, redirecting, like water, channeling, like a wayward stream, back to estuary; a stream that found its way through the valley when men dammed the mouth, no fault of its own, but now unwanted here, too; Mother directs daughter back to where she wants her, but what I want is for her to hold her, right there on the floor, pull her down, wrap her arms around her and rock her back and forth gently and cry with her. Not to do so is to unintentionally damage her, like finding a baby bird and holding it too tightly, not understanding the pieces inside are too delicate to touch, too fragile for human kindness. Unintentional hurt is the heartbreak of her childhood. Not enough touch, and touch too focused by hurtful hands.
* * *
Upon waking she is a small girl, dimply fingers around a spoon, eyes intent on stars and clovers floating in a milk bowl, eyes tired from a night’s effort trying to find hidden door latches in the dark. Upon waking she is a sleepwalker, hand-me down clothes from a closet she fears to enter. Upon waking she is channeled towards routine, a routine that will comfort her like constant pain through adulthood; Brush your teeth, sweetie, brush your hair, sugar, played on a basso background of heavy sleep, a man’s breathing, the kind of noisy sleep made by men who spend exhausting nights chasing prey.
* * *
Naya grasps my fingers in her hand and tugs, ‘Come on, Daddy! Let’s go, Daddy!’ You cannot imagine the delicate power behind such a tiny body, as though an ordinary breeze were to quietly lift the roof off your home. I pretend that it’s 1977, and that we are sleepwalking. I go back and guide her gently from room to room, always one door ahead of the demons; In my mind, I’ve recreated this home from long ago so that every closet has a back door; we escape from room to room. We never tire, because we push each other; We sleep this way, while walking; We dream like this, like waters misdirected.
Tag: Catachresis