Opening the back door to let the cats out, the air is warm, a moist-soft, warm.  I love this time of dark before first light, the day’s awakening letting loose the deep quiet of night.  Washing dishes, silverware a muted scraping in the old, porcelain sink, candlelight playing in the bubbles and faucet’s stream.  The water ssshh’ing as soap slips from the glasses, into the drain.  I look up to see reflections in the glass, inside to out, and outside to in.  The dance of flames unveils parts of my face and hides them again, in and out, out and in.  Wringing the rag, counter wiped, this little ritual that begins my days is near finished.  I pick up the silver snuffer holding it over the three tall candles that line the counter in front of me.  The prayer adapted from my Catholic childhood begins in a hush as I slowly lower it over each burning light: “in the name of the Father” – one; “the Son” – two; “and Holy Spirit” – three.  I move to the fourth one, a tea light seated in the lap of an orange figurine.  Letting the blackened hood fall over its small flame the words, “that are embodied within” closes the ceremony as the candle goes out.

With tea poured I return to the door, pushing it open as a soft shower falls.  Lights from the alley glisten on anything that will hold them.  The birds are silent.  The shower passes.  I pull on my boots and move into what is outside the window.