Nights when I was a kid, I crawled into my bed, pulled up my sheets, closed my eyes, and waited. I waited until my eyelids were lead heavy. I waited until my thoughts were blanketed by my breathing. And just as the pillow fibers stopped crackling in my pillow side ear, the floorboards began to vibrate. The vent at the head of my bed started to sing. The house’s settling became a constant low hum, and a melody started to swing my curtains. My rest became riddled with notes, parading through a staff paper thin dream. My soundtrack for sleep began. Old hymns, blues rhythms, Beethoven, and arpeggio after arpeggio.
My father, one room over, played for hours. I slept, knowing he was near.