Rows and rows of tables, candles, seats, pottery, china. A table set with ancient wisdom, an ancient knowing of each story behind each guest.
Purified tables on an atomic level. Chairs, steady and leathery and woody.
Column candles, tea lights burning. Both on the tables and in the air, like the banquet hall in Harry Potter. The stars in the sky seem low, within reach finally.
The air is dry and fragrant with smells that we have never smelled, mixed with the roasted lamb and other choice meats, fragrant offerings to us, to God. A little breeze laced with chocolate. A larger breeze pregnant with expectation, chilling to our strong bones.
Time, coming together. The past, the present. Wedded at last.
Family members that have been long gone. Victims of tragedy, martyrs, raised.
Music, dancing. The way we will be able to dance. With no urge to please anyone else, with no shame.
Wine. Wine that gets into skin, not just heads.
A mingling, rowdy party. Earth, sweat, breeze, completion.
Seeing Him. His eyes full of the fire of love. His garments fragrant.
Lounging and reclining. Having a Nat Sherman. He knows us.
Those who have stared at the face of tragedy, of death, of darkness, of mental illness, of injustice, of not being known in this life. Who have felt the anger and rage in their gut.
He enjoys our company. He thrives off our conversation. Phrases are completed in minds before they are actually spoken. There is laughter, victory, peace.
When we drive home, there will be no accidents. No more dark nights.