The rain quietly taps on vent hood and windowpane. Young people sleep behind freshly painted doors. The cat is plumped on the couch like a fat white loaf. Upstairs Tom's coffee cup clinks against a saucer. The Christmas tree glows in the murky daylight. In the distance an ambulance wails. I am, despite my pleasure in this moment, fretted and disturbed about Syria, about Mattis, about the fearful instability of Trump. I cannot banish my worries; they sift down, down, like coal ash in bad air. And yet: my children. Here they are. My thoughts shape a prayer.