Tapping

Tap tap tap on the windowsill.

It startles me awake, just like every night.

Tap tap tap.

The first night, I thought it was a tree branch and the wind. When it happened again, I trimmed back the tree. I needed my sleep.

But still, tap tap tap.

After a week, I went to look. There was nothing there. As I stared out the window into a moonless night, there was only the darkness. But as soon as I was in bed again, on the edge of sleep.

Tap tap tap.

I’ve lain awake for hours, at times, waiting for it. It never comes except right at the very verge. Right when I’m convinced that this time I will sleep peacefully.

Tap tap tap.

I wonder if a bird watches me through the window, some dark crow or raven, taking some bitter joy in waking me. Perhaps my ancestor angered the crows and this is their revenge. Yet I have never seen such a bird, even in passing, even in the day.

Tap tap tap.

I have imagined worse things, too, especially in the still and cold dead of the night. Tonight, I have thought to lay awake, watching the window, watching for what may come. Whatever that might be. I move my chair to the window and stare out into the dark. Even as the drowsiness comes, I keep my eyes open. I watch the void. I watch for my restless tormentor.

Tap tap tap.