sleepwalking to a glass of milk We slept as children did, easy in greyscale dream, fast in lullaby, under cicada song. The doors of our closets stayed shut, and there were no shadows then. Outside became inside, and curtains were never closed. Sweet summer tangled with our slipping breaths. We slept as children did, not as children do, and there was only make-believe. In our childhood home, monsters were things that lived in the television set, not out. And the both of us, my sister and me, didn’t have reason to hide under cover, didn’t find fear in the outside wind. Night was dark, but sleep was easy, grey and slipping. It pulled us under then. Later, we would wish for mother’s song, her stranger’s voice. But then, and only then, did I sleepwalk fast to the kitchen at night. If I fell asleep on the couch, I would walk to that room all the same. My childish hands opened fridge doors, reaching. Upwards they went, and a glass was already in my hands. Sipping on sweet milk, my eyes were glassy, half-closed or half-opened, pretending. Then, and only then, did my sister take the milk from my hands, made white rims, on the counter ‘til morning. I sleepwalk to my room and crawl underneath the sheets, safe but too young. Now, I hear a strange voice, and it is only mine.
Author Bio: Courtney Ludwick studies literature and creative writing at Texas Tech University. Her work has appeared in Watershed Review, Oxford Magazine, and Willard & Maple, among others. She is an associate fiction editor at Iron Horse Literary Review, and when she’s not writing, she’s probably hiking with her dachshund, Khaleesi. You can connect with Courtney on Instagram @courtlud.
