From upstairs I hear screeching door open followed by footsteps. The footsteps make a deep sound. A business walk, like a man with places to be.

Dad is home.

From upstairs I can sense her frustration. Frustration followed by a loud stomping stride. Marching upstairs, it’s her mad walk. Like a heat seeking missile focused, fixated on blowing up in my face. What did I do this time?

My Mad Mother.

From upstairs, I hear the dog walk on the wood floor. The scratchy sound stands out in the silence of night.

Spock.

Like Spock, my baseball cleats scratch the wood floor. Like Dad, my business walk at school.  Like Mom, Stomping when my computer doesn’t cooperate.