The corner of my world is small and secluded, but nonetheless still open to the happenings of the outside. What is outside my door will always affect the inside of my home.
Today it rained. The darkness consuming both the skies and the aura of our yellow house, resting quietly here on the corner. I found myself opening curtains to let the light in. The only way to beat the darkness, I read somewhere, is with light. And so I turn on lights and hug my daughter, thankful that she remains oblivious to these giant acts of hatred. I stay up late at night, worrying that someday I will have to explain these things to her. I awake in the morning feeling grateful for her smile.
With bags under my eyes and a head blurry from restlessness, I navigate this gray period with uncertainty, checking the locks on the doors more than I know I should. They were someone’s sons and daughters, I think over and over and over. Must we now fear dancing? The congregation with others hoping to let it all go and just dance? I want my daughter to dance as she grows and as an adult, too. Don’t we all deserve to dance without fear? I worry that someday she will have to avoid the things that bring us the greatest joy.
She cannot understand that today, she is my light. My light to wipe away the darkness. How fleeting the light can seem sometimes: a ray here or there, streaking through the skyline, then taken hostage again by the clouds. Storms blow over, I remind myself, looking over to June. The sun is set to return this afternoon.