Inherited Wakefulness

I woke at 2 AM

and found myself at the sink,

drinking water straight from the stem,

standing in the dark, trying to think.

My mother used to do this—

stand in the kitchen at night,

let the cold water remind her of bliss,

or at least that she was still alive and might.

I'm doing it now,

same sink, different home.

Same specific need somehow,

same reason to roam.

The fridge light is off.

Everything is cold and gray.

I could almost laugh—

I'm becoming her in every way.

My hands at the sink

are her hands.

My need to stop and think

at 2 AM understands

what she understood:

that sleep is a temporary state,

that standing in the cold for good

reminds you you're not already too late.

By the time I return to bed,

I can't tell anymore

if I'm living this instead,

or watching her do what I saw before.