The Hum at Three

I'm awake and the house

is humming.

Not me. The fridge.

A sound I don't usually hear

because I'm usually asleep,

usually moving,

usually filling the silence

with something else.

But at 3 AM

there's nothing but the hum.

The refrigerator keeping

its promise to keep things cold,

to keep things from spoiling,

to hum forever in the dark

whether anyone's listening

or not.

I follow the sound to the kitchen.

The red glow

spilling out into the hallway,

that specific red of a refrigerator light,

digital and cold.

I open the door.

The hum gets louder.

The light gets brighter.

Everything inside

is exactly where I left it,

preserved, humming,

waiting to be consumed.

I close the door.

The hum continues.

3 AM in a quiet house

and the refrigerator is the only thing

keeping time,

keeping watch,

keeping me company

by refusing to be silent.

I go back to bed

but I can still hear it.

The sound underneath everything.

The proof that something

is always working,

always running,

always keeping the dark

from taking everything.