Last night, a cricket was in the house. He made his high-pitched song and I listened from bed. He trilled and he chirped. He was calling out, saying something, beckoning.
At 2 am, after hours of relentless song, I got out of bed and went to him. I found him in the living room on the edge of a bookshelf. He was black as night sky and strummed wings in a fury, in a maelstrom of music. I could see the great effort it took for him to hit that incredible high note, to project it through the dark house. I said, isn’t it a bit late for all of this?
Sometimes at 2 am, I go to my son’s room and say the same thing. He is making music, strumming the strings of a guitar, moving his head in synch with the song. He doesn’t hear me either. He keeps calling out into the night.