Sounds Like
Lynn Kozlowski

Upstairs through the ceiling, some music with drums wakes me. My son perhaps is not alone--perhaps singing gibberish to himself. The words are high pitched and fast--as if his tongue is fluttering madly.
He starts then to move around the room, as if he is running on all fours around the walls, bouncing off the walls to the floor and back. Nails clicking on the walls.
I go up, knock softly, to not wake the house, and the room quiets. I whisper his name. The door is locked. I knock again softly and say his name in a loud whisper. I try the door again and rattle the knob, to make myself clear. I lean my side against the foolish door and say, "Keep it down," leaving it at that, not wanting to wake the house.

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