It’s 2 am
Maybe it’s the cold of the air-conditioned room that wakes me up.
Maybe it’s the bird of thoughts that fly around in my head even when my mouth has long ceased to talk.
Maybe it’s the gritty feel of microscopic desert sand, embedded and irritating my skin
reminding me that I fell asleep yet again lost in the pages of a book, never having taken that shower I said that I would take, after the walk.
The house is silent. Hubby is on a trip. The children are deeply asleep in their wonderful world of snooze.
The clock tick-tocks, in the quiet of the house, it’s relentless soft sound, sounds loud enough.
The hum of the outside seeps in. I hear the whirr of the lift. I hear the drone of cars. Somewhere there’s a cabbie scooting around with customers, there are planes bringing in and taking away visitors and then there’s me.
Wondering if a cup of soup is out of place at this hour – opening the fridge to cut a piece of cold chicken, along with not taking that shower, I forgot to eat and the hunger pangs remind me.
Brief thoughts settle for a walk in my head. I am at peace even when pieces of me are torn.
At this wee hour of the night and morning, I feel your presence.
First, you rest on my head like a Dove. Your weight is so light but your presence is solid.
Then you shift to my right shoulder for the slightest moment.
Then you dive into my heart and nestle inside.
I may not be able to find a temple to lay myself down in worship
I may not afford a ticket to Rome
But I feel you because you are here. You didn’t need a temple to visit me.
I feel you so much that I am suffused with a gratitude that I can’t describe.
I cease to question sublime moments like your presence but to soak in them.
Moments when nothing is perfect.
When all seems as it should be even when everything is chaotic and imbalanced.
It’s 2.45 am