Alicia Doesn't Know

Up and down, up and down she walks. Back and forth, round and round. She won't stay still. All she does is walk, walk, walk. She waits, in the light of the window. She doesn't know I'm awake. But I hear her. I'm awake. I'm always awake when she walks. Always. Her shoes click, click on the sidewalk. She doesn't know I can hear her.

She doesn't know I know what the noise on the roof in the middle of the night really is. She doesn't know I can feel the scratching of the drainpipe against the aluminum siding of the house. She doesn't know I can count the seconds between the creak of the window opening and the tap of her feet hitting the ground. She'll walk, and wait, and get in the car that pulls up with headlights that cut though the dark.

She doesn't know what I know. I know, and she doesn't.