Knocking

As my father aged he became quieter. It wasn't that he stopped communicating; it was that he was talking more and more to the voices in his head. He conceived of these voices as a college of warlocks. They told him stories from early 20th-Century northern New Mexico, particularly from the hills all around Santa Fe, told him jokes, and generally buoyed his spirit. 

I'm now at the age where I should be hearing voices too, but so far it's just a grim, voiceless sanity late at night. 

Nevertheless, I've started hearing knocking sounds in the wall of my kitchen. There's a small door there that's been painted shut. Behind the door is an old chimney. I need to open that door. I note that the chimney is open at the bottom, in the basement, and for all I know, it's open above the roof too. It's quite plausible that a rat, a possum, or some other small mammal has taken refuge there. 

Last night at 1 a.m., I brought out the battery-powered megaphone. I was yelling loudly at the knocking in the wall and generating harsh, loud feedback to scare the perpetrator in the wall. 

I was reminded of "Breaking Bad": about Jesse's story regarding his cancer-addled aunt, who called the police concerning a possum (an O'Possum) she called Scrabble that she heard making noise in the basement. The prequel "Better Call Saul" showed police detective Roberts taking her call. The general consensus was that there was no possum; it was just her. 

Perhaps there is no knocking in the kitchen wall late at night. Maybe it's just me. 

My father dwelled in silence. I dwell in noise. Anyway, it's time, you know?