of incense and tapestries

It’s a night for candles.
A dark blue tapestry of marching elephants covering the pale white blinds on my small third story apartment window- so that I may not see the street lights. It’s a night for an absence of streetlight and an abundant presence of candlelight- that tame, cradling glow that wraps around you with warmth and nostalgia of campfires, quiet Kenyan nights and grandma’s singular vanilla candle on the stairs down to her basement library.
That library of old school books, the jar of buttons, the stationary bike in the corner. The strange green carpet and the blue glass bird on the windowsill in the kitchen.

It’s a night for incense.
For lighting nag champa with the flamingo-print lighter from the grocery store in Mukono. It’s a night to let the smoke and scent swirl around the room- bring back the rides in the car with that roommate, that year, that time, that hard time, those laughing, singing, joyous times with Broadway showtunes and vanilla incense wedged in the airvents of that car.

It’s a night for red wine and M&Ms, for staring at the elephants from around the world that have traveled in suitcases and hiking backpacks to come perch on my bookshelves- ambassadors of travels past.

It’s a night of a lazy Sunday with a morning fashion photo shoot on the coast, and feminist films with the roommates. It’s a night of looking around and relishing in the experiences that have brought me to this. The post cards saved, the treasures collected from corner shops in Maine, the quilt my mother made, the painting from a friend, the books that carry me ever further into myself and ever away.

It’s a night to look around.
To open your eyes.
To welcome your self into the coziness of the candlelight.

You surround yourself with the tokens and lessons and scars and pictures from your journey that has brought you through all the places you’ve been to the place you are—embrace the imagery.
Stack the books and climb through the adventure that was reading through school, reading and growing up with Harry Potter, reading in hammocks in the summer.
Light the match and smell the memory of the painted murals on your ceiling, the music that got you through, the nights with your sisters eating éclairs on the side of the bathtub and doing each other’s hair.
Drink the wine and think to all the people at the bars, the dances with your friends, the clothing swaps between closets before every event, every dinner, every date, every interview, every night out.

It’s a night for smiling.