Everybody in the brick house sleeps differently. My sister’s schedule is always changing, night owl to early bird and back again. When she lived above us the light burned through her sheer east facing curtains and stomped on her face the way she went up the stairs at night. Now she goes to bed early enough to wake up before the sun has stretched its arms or rubbed its eyes. It was in her sleep that it would rain. The sound of the droplets hitting the roof, echoing throughout an abandoned building.

I slept in her room once. I didn’t welcome the light on my face like she did. A barricade of pillows on either side, I sleep in. The light doesn’t flood in so easily at my window, distracted by buildings at the side. It delicately taps my window instead, asking to be let in, wiping its feet on the welcome mat, and perching itself on the edge of the couch, utilizing the coaster on the coffee table. And I welcome it, too, as an “early bird.”

But my mother, no. In the afternoons she would start a semolina or a sourdough that filled the air with her sweet and fresh baking. It was warm as a hug from a distant relative, possibly unwelcome yet loving nonetheless. It made you feel small, which was all I wanted. She just went to bed later, and later, later, later. This only meant crisp, quiet mornings spent alone, cringing at the cold, wooden floors underneath a naked foot. I had hoped she would start to wake earlier, if not for the comfort of our house guests, but to no avail. So it was in her sleep that I learned how to host. It was in her sleep I fell asleep, too. And while I was dreaming I heard the rain, ever present and aggressive at times, felt the timid sun, tapping my shoulder politely, and finally tasted those slices of sourdough she had promised me.