In the Deepest of Night, by Judy Bolton-Fasman

Never wake a sleepwalker.

In the deepest of night, you do everything possible to keep the walker safe in their vertical sleep. 

In the deepest of night, I hear you go down the stairs — your footfalls once again telegraphing your strength and balance and determination — the footfalls of a man who walked two miles every day in all seasons.

I, your middle-aged daughter, am staying in my girlhood bedroom to drive you to doctors’ appointments, stock the refrigerator, and do whatever needs to be done after you drifted in and out of lanes and your driver’s license of sixty years was revoked. 

In the deepest of night, I witness the medical marvel you are as you take back your life, walking in your sleep. On one of your myriad medical appointments, the doctor tells us he had never heard of a patient sleepwalking the way you do without the Parkinson’s gait.

In the deepest of night, it is a miracle that you have summoned the strength to sleepwalk away from your disease, if only for a few moments. It is a miracle that you don’t list to the left. You are in a surreal time of your own gathering. 

I shadow you the same way you once shadowed me, your little girl, your somnambulist firstborn. I always found my way to the kitchen to eat sugar cubes. You were behind me, stepping so lightly, so as not to wake me. 

Never wake a sleepwalker.

In the deepest of night, when you were healthy and walking with military bearing fully awake, you skimmed your glass of low-fat milk with saltines. Your crunching reverberated throughout our downstairs. Now, you are back in the same spot in the kitchen without the milk or saltines. And you will remember none of it in the morning. 

Then, you float to the den and pull out the Music of Vienna – gentle, decorative music – you played on the turntable. The waltzes you swayed to, fully asleep; the waltzes you glided to at your college proms. Waltzes you sweetly played on the violin when you did a stint in a society orchestra. 

Never wake a sleepwalker. You are enjoying the music in that moment of amnesia. 

I never quite outgrew somnambulism’s dead-dream state. 

In the deepest of night, a bedmate would often find me sitting up ramrod straight, staring wide-eyed, even curiously. I remember none of that in the morning.

We are closest in the deepest of night, when you are the somnambulist. I never want to wake you up. 

Life comes full circle, and it is my turn to watch over you. I learned from you that safety is a serious and continuous undertaking for the ones you love. And the love undergirding it is stoic like you once were. And so, I follow you as you followed me. 

Standing at your grave, I do not remember the intricate path of how I got there. Oh, Dad, looking for you awakens the somnambulism in us. You are constantly moving; I am following you. And vice versa. 

I leave colored transparent stones on your grave etched with words like peace and love. I lie down next to your headstone, asking you to come to me in the deepest of night. And when you do, I ask you to please wake me. 

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Judy Bolton-Fasman is the author of ASYLUM: A Memoir of Family Secrets from Mandel Vilar Press. Her essays and reviews have appeared in major newspapers such as the New York Times, the Boston Globe, essay anthologies, and literary magazines She is the recipient of writing fellowships from Hedgebrook, Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, Vermont Studio Center, and the Mineral School. Judy is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a Best of the Net and a 2024 BAE nominee. 

© 2025, Judy Bolton-Fasman