by Jacob Reis

Created on: March 04, 2010   Last Updated: March 09, 2010

The Rhythm

Autumn comes quickly to western Pennsylvania every year, and this year is certainly no exception to that rule.  Broken and cold wind gusts sweep violently over the land that the summer sun still vainly tries to warm in the death-throes before winter takes command of nature's forces.  Suburban Pittsburgh is hit hard by the winds, sweeping through the snaking valleys and up onto the hilltops, cresting, swirling and once again descending into the valleys.  My family's humble two story, red brick home sits on a slope leading to the peak of one of those hills, adorned now by brown and black trees, bare of leaves for weeks.  Many would describe the scene as bare, desolate, or depressing, but me, I do not.  Though certainly less colorful, the images are clearer, and crisper, one could see farther, and the shapes that those tree branches form against one another are a sight that has captured my attention annually.  Though mystical and entrancing, nothing outdoors that fall could compare to what I witnessed inside my own house.

My house is organized as if to single me out.  My parents’ room is on the second floor, against the side of the house closest to the upward sloping hill.  My older brother’s room is also on the highest floor but faced the valley below.  The first floor is the epicenter of the house, containing therein a kitchen, living room, dining room, bathroom, and laundry room.  Directly below the kitchen, on what my parents affectionately called the “ground floor” instead of basement, rests my room.  

This night, I am studying on my bed.  A book lay open in front of me and a notebook sat to the side.  The television, against the staircase on the far wall is turned on, but without volume.  The white noise helps me focus, and right now, that is the only sound I hear.  The glowing green LED alarm display on my desk shows a time of 11:45 PM.  Quietly, I finish reviewing the chapter.
As I turn to the last page, I notice footsteps in the kitchen above me.  My older brother generally comes downstairs to use the toilet before he goes to bed; naturally, I think nothing of it.  I sigh deeply to myself as I finish the reading.  Then I slam the book shut and throw it onto my desk.  I collapse back onto my bed and stare at the ceiling, and having liberated my focus from the material, I notice the footsteps once again.

 I figure one of

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