When Worlds Blow Up
Fajr prayer when night still holds the earth in its tender palm. The air hums quietly, velvet-dark, pierced gently by my whispers of devotion. Forehead pressed against the softness of my prayer rug, surrendering beneath the weight of my thoughts. Outside, the sky eases open, a hushed bloom of lavender and gold unfolding slowly over sleeping rooftops. I rise and bow in rhythm, thanking God for grace before the day claims my body and mind. Here, dissolving softly into daybreak, I find peace woven seamlessly between silence and supplication.
Bare feet sink into grass, roots of quiet grounding joy, cool earth lingering in dew, a kiss from night’s farewell.
Kettle hums: A porcelain cup holds amber secrets, and ink-dark ripples spin reflection and revelation with each careful sip.
I smile and take a breath as the golden fingers caress the spines of Morrison, Tolstoy, and Ward. On my writing desk, a Lego piece abandoned, a small token of my son’s universe, paused at the corner of my page. I turn, embrace the calm, open pages like curtains, revisions born of silence, words refined in quiet light, sentences smoothed as shadows soften into day. Around the corner, children sleep, their dreams tender and unwritten, as New Orleans offers its stillness —a gift for me alone.
Tolstoy: Selected stories.
There is a cat. Sleek and shadow-soft, she glides across the early street, each paw careful not to disturb the dreams lingering in the air. She slips past the chipped ceramic bowl my neighbor faithfully fills. Past the fluttering birds whose morning chorus greets her like royalty, she moves gracefully beneath the lemon sun, its gentle warmth brushing golden highlights onto her dark fur. At my porch, she pauses and lets out a delicate meow, a whisper against the silence, and scratches lightly at the welcome mat. I usually hear her before seeing her, tugging gently at the corners of my writing, of my awareness. I peer through the window and smile softly. She is my gentle reminder, my quiet alarm, a shift in my morning rhythm. It's my cue to step away, to inhale deeply. I savor the stillness. The children, still wrapped in sleep, the house holds a deep, grey calm streaked softly with white. This nameless cat, elusive and free, walking with effortless grace past everything, comes each day and reminds me to pause, to breathe, to honor the quiet beginnings of everything.
Mr. John died. Trying to deal with it. Grateful for the time we had.
Colonoscopy because of issues, and I don’t want to be another black man too afraid to tend to his health. I imagine the sterile brightness of the examination room, the coolness of the vinyl-covered bed against my skin, and the rhythmic beeping of monitors keeping time with my heartbeat. But mostly, I picture the relief afterward, knowing that I confronted my fear head-on, refusing to let stigma or anxiety dictate the story of my health.
Zoe’s bracelet.
The world blew up, shattered into a thousand jagged, once hopeful pieces, and I still have no idea how or why. I stood, frozen, while reality crumbled like brittle gold slipping through my fingertips, clouds of smoke swallowing everything I knew. In a single heartbeat, reality was reduced to blocks of fire and silence, a catastrophic symphony without a conductor. Now, drifting through what's left, I search the ashes for clues of our collapse.
Everyone is problematic to a cause.
Everyone is a hero to a cause
Rose tea (in honor)
With all my heart…Té
