THE SHOULD NOTS

A cat’s paw digs into my breast and wakes me. She’s on my chest, walking aimlessly as if I’m the sidewalk we found her on three years ago. It’s midnight. She should not be awake. I should not be awake. She should not be in my room because my door should not be open, but all of these should nots most certainly are. Who opened my door? I slip out of bed, scoop her in my arms and walk to toss her out when I see down the hall that my children’s bedroom light is on. That shouldn’t be. And the large rectangular yellow-orange glow painting oblong shapes against the floor and walls tells me that their door is also open. That also shouldn’t be. I ease down the hardwood, expecting to see them awake. They’re dead asleep. I slip into their room and inch closer, yes, not dead, just very much asleep. Who opened their door? Who turned on their light? Why are my children I buried three months ago sleeping soundly in their room tonight?