“No he don’t!” she yelled, smiling. “He a good baby. You just a good little boy, ain’t you, little man …?” She brought her face close to the child’s, beaming so that she seemed to turn shades lighter. I walked over to her bed and stared down into the yellow baby’s face. An Indian baby, I thought. A little Pocahantas. The owl-like, black, slanted eyes and silky hair. One of the lucky ones whose mother was stopped in the grocery store or on the street by all the women she passed, even White women, who just wanted to marvel at how “be-yoooo-tiful” the baby was. With my luck, my baby would come out inheriting Ma’s ugly scar and my hard knots of hair. I thought about asking to hold him, then changed my mind. No use getting used to those habits if I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. No need to fall in love with all that now. I walked away from the baby and back toward my things, unpacking for about an hour before saying “Good night” and turning out the lamp near my bed.

WE FINALLY FOUND what we been searching for all our lives, huh? A roomy house. A beautiful house. A safe house. An abundant house. A house with so many rooms and doors and closets and stairs one could lose their way. We made it, together, to the safe place. A place where the men stand far away while women and children play inside. A place where there is always food in the cabinets, on the stove, in our bellies. A place where we can sleep all night with both eyes shut rather than just one. A place where once the door is closed, whatever going on beyond it no longer matters. Where does all this come from? The sisters would say God, and we wouldn’t argue. But I would add something. I would say it came from love too, wouldn’t you? So this is what it could be like? None of that life’s noise in here. Just soft sounds—water splashing, food boiling, forks clinging, pencils writing, women and children cooing in sleep. Pretty words hanging in the air all the time. Sister. Ma’dea. Lordamercy. Hallelujah. I feel different now inside of you—lighter maybe. I can feel you toss and turn less now, laugh more. Is it too late to invite the others? Might as well, before it gets too crowded here or folks who can’t understand our peace come along to burn it down. We would stay inside though, while the flames danced around us, and we wouldn’t burn. Not here, in this place. This is my house. This is our house. Finally, our Cosby Show house.

THIRTEEN