Description
This is the place my head goes the moment the lights go out. A face surfaces out of the dark, and everything attaches itself to her—old clippings, little crowds of people, a phone, a thought that won’t quiet down. The mind doesn’t rest the way the body does; it sorts and re-sorts, pulling up faces and worries and odd small fragments and laying them all over you at once. This is that hour made solid: crowded, restless, and strangely alive in the dark.
The title is the child’s prayer, but said from the far end of a life—a little plea for rest that the mind doesn’t always grant.
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