Sitting on the couch with my son in the middle of the
night. Passing the time with a movie,
waiting for the pharmacy to open so that when the inevitable prescription for
antibiotics is written it can be filled, the bug-killers taken, and the
hoped-for process of recovery from strep throat can begin. The kid sent me in search of a bucket;
because you never know when you’ll need a bucket. My search took me outside onto the
patio. And I heard the singing.
We live in sight of several villages, each with a green-lit
minaret reaching for the sky. Depending
on the breeze, and the volume of the loudspeakers, the call to prayer can
often be clearly heard. Lying in bed in the pre-dawn dark, I hear them calling;
starting a new day as the old one ended, but tonight was not a call. Tonight was a love song. Sometimes, ritual
can become devotion. Tonight I heard it,
curling through the darkness as soft and sweet as the smell of the citrus
blossoms on our tree right now. I came
back inside (with the bucket), sat beside our boy and didn’t start the movie. “Listen”
I said. “Can you hear the singing?”
