Praying to Something

Old habits unearth themselves, often, without an announcement of their soon coming arrival. For many years he had the habit of lying in bed, and in order to fall asleep without every thought he’s ever had invading his pre-dream haze, he would begin to count backwards starting from 99. The surprise came on one of those nights when he desired to pray before counting down, a habit he had abandoned or lost interest in or became too tired to care about. So he said,

“God, can I call you by a different name?”

Moments before the countdown from 99…

At first he wondered if they could try “Creator,” a name with some roots, less aerial and distant. A bit more grounded, and certainly a bit more indigenous, at least to the bed hovering above the red southwest clay.

Then he pondered, maybe “Creator” wasn’t right for this night, and he’d like to pray to a “Friend.” He asked if he could call the one he prayed to, “Friend.” The response was hushed, hard to hear even in that stillness before sleep, but the option seemed safe. He liked the name “Friend” because he was the type who needed, always, one who listens and cares and holds the tension of the lopsided shit of his personality. One who understands he jokes to earn trust, but also, when he’s afraid of tackling the unfolding depth in a conversation, he snarks just as the elevator begins to descend into the mine of meaning. But on this night, “Friend” wouldn’t do within the shadows of the separation they had endured, that he had let happen like the gradual undoing of the angle of repose.

So he asked,

“Can I call you Something?”

And his chest warmed, his tightened biceps released, stretching to his sides. Tension seeped from his lower back like a beach ball freshly punctured.

So he said,

“Something, it is good to be here moments from counting down my way into sleep because one thing I felt inclined to say, as soon as I could get your name sorted out, was thank you. Thank you for this life, this woman to my left, the dearest friend I’ve ever known, the creator of worlds and dreams and healings and adventures, an imagination brimming with opportunities only she can fashion with her hands. Thank you for a life together, helping one another dig footings and heave trusses and stack buttresses of support to cultivate whatever’s been birthed somewhere on the island of our respective souls.”

“This woman to my left…”

He said,

“Something, thank you. Thank you for the dog who sighs on the other side of the bed, refusing to move all night because to move too much might wake her from the dream of the good life she finds herself living. For almost two years she was surrounded by chain link and shouting canines, and no one wanted her. How could this be, Something? It’s too selfish and myopic to think the Universe (a far off name for Something) wanted to wait to unite our lives, but it is right to say the dog and I needed each other. Thank you for the shelter that held her, if a bit like purgatory, until we could come waltzing in for the grand rescue.”

“…but it is right to say the dog and I needed each other.”

He whispered, one last time, thank you.

Then he felt an old sensation crawling back into bed and the sensation was cold, and his body clenched. Something didn't want more from him. He was enough, his desire even, enough, but the zeitgeist-of-old-habits-gone-wild tried to coerce him to keep praying, to list things that he once thought needed to be listed. But he paused long enough to say, “Something, good night.” And he meant that it was good.

99, 98, 97, 96, 95…

“Oh, one last thing!” he said.

He prayed,

“Dearest Something, I won’t tip toe out of bed to write about this night of prayer because I’d like to hold the sacred moment in place, sleep tight with it. Cuddled like a stuffed animal. But if I wake up and it still lives inside of me, may I jot it down?”

Something was already asleep and he resumed counting. 94, 93, 92, 91…