Holding my pen like a prayer I trudged through lines of ink that turned heavy and mad, a garbled verse as blind as sleepwalking.

Some nights I get out of bed and wander the room. Tired, and annoyed, Jerry says, Kendra! Get back in bed.

I might be waving through clothes in the closet. I might be at the dresser opening and closing drawers. He says, Kendra. What are you doing?

Going to the bathroom.

Not in here.

I always think there must be a story here, and that if I write, then the explanations will pop out. Nope.

I remember being a kid and waking up in my closet. I also remember putting my favorite new shoes next to my head as I slept, waiting for school. Somewhere in my old bedroom is a past version of me stepping out of bed and going to the closet where I sit down in the junk that lives in kids' closet floors and sleep.

Dear Lily, please don't let me leave the house if I am walking around at night while I stare stupidly and remember nothing at all.