When the surprises come, on these things I can rely

This house has its own fingerprint that, like all homes, you recognize after time. The upstairs thermostat clicks when the air kicks on. The third stair from the top creaks beneath your footstep. The bottom hinge of the pantry door squeeks. The piano in then entryway needs to be dusted. And tuned. The metal plate at the bottom of the patio door is loose. Familiar.

After a couple days, I settle in. My breathing matches the rhythm, rise and fall, the pulse of this house.

Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?

It's 1:35 in the morning. I hear her, jump out of bed, trip over Cheyenne and hit the floor. I want to cry out from the fear and surprise of suddenly being face down on the floor when five seconds ago I was sound asleep. Instead I scramble.

I'm coming Mom.

I fly down the stairs in the dark, only hearing my feet.

I just want to be sure that you know my new room number. I get to leave tomorrow and I want to be sure you know where to find me.

She's confused again. She hasn't had the confusion for a couple weeks now. I send out a rapid prayer that she is simply confused from waking out of a dream.

I put my fingers through her hair, I know where to find you Mom, don't worry, I know where to find you.

She looks at me, gratitude, need and love in her eyes. I sit with her while she falls back asleep. Guarding her, soothing her.

Returning upstairs, I crawl back into bed, pat Cheyenne's head, tell her I'm sorry for surprising her, and close my eyes.

I hear the air kick on and wait for the sure and comforting click of the thermostat. Three, two, one. It clicks. I breathe. The house and everything in it falls back asleep.