She moves late at night, when I ought to be asleep because the alarm will go off before I’ve had a chance to sleep enough. She moves as if she has been reading a book and then suddenly breaks out into peals of bodily laughter. I wonder if she will always move like this–long periods of silence followed by bursts of energy–or if this is just the testing of new neural circuits. How much of her is her yet and how much is only the scaffolding of who she will be.
We sit alone together in the dark wondering what the other one of us is like, knowing each other through touch like two blind women seeking each other out with their fingers. Already we build our sense of each other, limited and skewed, but we fill in holes with what we know and fear about ourselves.
It begins early–that belief that I might know her any more than I do now, when I am the closest to her. So far, I know she likes to move at night, that some times she sleeps and sometimes she must simply be listening. Or perhaps that’s me, listening for her, waiting until she moves again so I will know for certain that she’s still there.