Dreaming Aloud

I was almost asleep on her sofa bed when I saw Aunt Ida drifting through the room. Her nightgown rippled. Her figure was washed by the palest moonlight, hands dangling from thin wrists. In an airy voice, high as a girl’s, she muttered about the market and milk, ambling past me to the door of her apartment. She seemed to be led by invisible strings, feeling for the knob till the door yawned open, admitting gusts of warm wind. I called her name, louder and louder, but Ida bobbed down the steps to the street, half alert and half entranced. I bolted from bed and dashed after my aunt. I was wearing pajamas, barefoot. The steps were hard on the soles of my feet. The windows of other apartments were black. Palm trees heaved their heads toward the stars.

I followed her onto Fairfax Avenue, empty of vendors, pedestrians, and cars. Traffic lights changed from red to green. Faint halos encircled the street lamps. An airplane hummed overhead. Aunt Ida paused at the window of Stoloff’s, peering in at pastry cases, at glazed cakes, braided bread, cookies splattered with dollops of chocolate. Her face was lit by the neon clock that hovered above the register. Her nostrils flared at a sugary smell seeping through the plate glass. Her eyelids hung at half-mast, mouth working on silent words. I thought I should clasp her limp hand, thought I should guide Aunt Ida home, but something told me not to wake her. I stayed guard, kept watch, protected my sleeping aunt like a sentry.