Clear skies illuminate each note in my headphones of John Coltrane’s Psalm, A Love Supreme. Devoid of any misplacement, pure sound. I gaze towards the sun before I enter my home removing the engineered perfection from my ears. I thumb through my vinyl, finding the album. Let the record
Minutes pass for hours as I await the years to come. Await the war-torn desert below. Await the fertile land that bore no fruit. Await as the military aircraft banks a hard right in descent. A disquiet builds within as I sit, strapped into the red net seating, air thick
Blue waters dark as fallen angels, cold as the bones of the unburied dead, and vast as the depths of the soul stared at me with answers to questions I did not know how to ask. Fear of swimming into that unknown ocean paralyzed me, drowning the gifts of grace.