There was a cricket in the house. It chirped from a corner, though nobody ever saw it. All night long, he’d sing. Sometimes, in a fast rhythm, and then slow down as if he were performing a ballad. The high-pitched noise drove the old man crazy at first. He ripped out desk drawers, turned over the trashcan, and checked behind potted plants, all in an effort for peace and quiet. Slept with one eye opened and a shotgun on his lap in his easy chair. The old man was convinced the cricket was a monster. An invisible monster that would one day appear in front of him. He was prepared.

Days were quiet. No noise from the cricket. Just a low hum of television talk shows. Shows about cheating spouses, obese children, pregnant daughters, and fights between siblings. The old man just sat there with the gun cocked over his shoulder. His fingers sweated from the summer heat. Felt a tension on the trigger. Dreaded nightfall.

One night, as the cricket serenaded him, he had a dream. In this dream, he awoke to the smell of fried bacon in the skillet, eggs seasoned, buttered tortillas and coffee brewing. The cricket was standing upright in this vision with an apron around his waist, speaking Spansh. He placed breakfast on a table for the old man and began to sing an old traditional Mexican mariachi song of love and despair. The old man smiled as he rolled his eggs in the corn tortilla. Clapped his hands while the cricket swayed back and forth. There was no anger in him. Just peace. He tipped the cricket a ten spot. The insect smiled and bowed, then walked out the door, closing it softly with a turn of the knob.

The old man awoke to silence. No longer was there noise. No more singing. Just quiet.

Leaves fled from trees.