"The night is beautiful,
so are the faces of my people".
Aziza is asleep next to me, and I'm listening to the rhythm of her breath spinning a song as soft and sweet as cotton candy into the night. Sleep well, my little ZZ. May the Lord give you a peaceful night, and a perfect end.
Ken is in the living room. He is talking to himself, and the television is too loud, saying over and over in Jerry Springer's voice, "you *are* the father". He's ignoring it, playing Lumumba's electric guitar, even though he doesn't know how. He uses beats he made on his groove box to accompany him. He wants to be a musician. I am charmed by his diligence and awful playing. Play on, my love, but don't stay up too late. May the Lord give you a peaceful night, and a perfect end.
I can hear the hum of our electric appliances, and I am grateful, especially since the electricity was supposed to be shut off two weeks ago. I don't know how God is doing this for me, but He is. Mercy keeps showing up, confusing reality. Hum on, electric things. May the Lord give you, inanimate though you may be, a peaceful night and a perfect end.
Abeje and Nia Grace, cuddled on their futon. Lumumba and Kamau, wrestling allergies for sleep, offering up their nasally thunder snores to the blackened sky through their open window. May the angels kiss you on your stuffy noses, and the Lord give you a peaceful night, and a perfect end.
The patchwork prayers of true friends cover me like a quilt, and while the full moon flirts on the other side of the roof, I will stretch myself out, and finally sleep in a Van Gogh vision. Under the starry night, the sky lights still awake, blurry in the dark, with swirly, pearly, starry, starbright stars, laughing and winking in my dreams.
A peaceful night. A perfect end.