Sometimes, at night, when I'm all alone, and my still house is curtained midnight blue, and the only sounds that battle the ceaseless silence are old floorboards yawning, cracked plaster peeling, the foundation setting free spectral stories long suppressed, I crane my neck, and lean into the darkness so I can listen to my home sing me a lullaby. I open my shuttered eyes, flatten out my palms, and wrap myself around myself so I can caress the encircling silence, watch the world waltz in the moon's shadow, and wait for the world to reveal answers to questions I don't know how to ask.