Page 59 of Night Songs

Inside, the living room was a velvet-lined, wood-ribbed whale, and we settled into its cushioned belly with weary relief. The walls inhaled… and exhaled.

Tate put on Blind Willie Johnson’s “Dark Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground.” I lay back in a pile of pillows and let the blues soak me through.

I became the demon child again, lying awake after bedtime, sandwiched between two of my cousins with a thin blanket spread over us. I could smell the older boys in the next bed over.

I lay there and touched the skin on my neck, searching for comfort. I didn’t have a special blanket or a stuffed animal I could stroke and soothe myself with. I only had my own body, so I rubbed my soft neck skin between my fingers and sucked on my tongue.

I reached for a memory that I saved for the real bad times, afraid overuse would wear it too thin:

It was dark, and I was warm and wet.

And then, out of the blackness, there was a sound. It vibrated against my body.

Then it entered me, filling up my head and chest like a yellowroot unfurling in spring. It felt so good. Better than anything I’d ever experienced.

It was my mother, singing to me while I was still inside her belly. My first music.

I started to hum the tune, and Tate turned off the record player. I sang what I remembered:

Baby, don’t be ’fraid

When I leave too soon

Baby, don’t be ’fraid

I’ll be your moon

Baby, don’t be ’fraid

When the white dog moan

Baby, don’t be ’fraid

You’ll nev’r be alone

Baby, don’t be ’fraid

When you wake at night

Baby, don’t be ’fraid

I’ll be your light

Baby, don’t be ’fraid

When it comes for you

Baby, don’t be ’fraid

’Cause I’m there with you

Tate leaned over and brushed his thumb across my wet cheek. I almost never cried, especially in front of people. It was much easier to keep it inside and heat it to steam, let it escape as anger.

“What was that? I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so sad and beautiful.”

“My mama used to sing it… it must be some folk song.” But as I said this, I wondered if that was true. The lyrics were so specific, so clearly made for a cursed woman speaking to her child, knowing she will soon leave them, and that one day, they, too, will suffer. The song conferred a haunting comfort, a tenderness meant for a demon child. Perhaps it was written by my mother, or my grandmother, or my great-grandmother.

The tears continued to flow, and I let them drip warmly down the sides of my face into the rug.