He wanted God to speak to him, to tell him this holiday, this religion, even the way his life was now, was going in the right direction. And what even was the right direction? He was thirty-one, and the contrast between feeling young enough to still be confused so often about life and feeling old enough that death—when he woke up in the morning and his back hurt or the idea of going to bed at ten was deeply appealing—was tangible in an unexpected way. I only have fifty more left, was a constant thought, and: I don’t even know what “right” is.

The sound of a throat clearing. Antony leaned forward, until his forehead was almost touching the shut door. All these years with it, trying to understand and building other people’s faith in the ways the door represented so many things—a path to God, a path to being comfortable with the universe’s mysteries, an acceptance of death and change—and still, deep down, he was afraid of it. Antony never went through. He envied the people who could approach it and hear no voices. Every time Antony was near it, especially when no one else was around, he was sure he could occasionally hear his father from a distance. If not his voice, deep and slow, then the way his father whistled “Bring It On Home to Me.”

“Are you okay? It’s pretty late for you to be out here.”

Antony turned; it was Malik.

“Thoughts,” he said.

“Woman shit?” Malik asked.

“I wish. Would love all my problems to be she thinks I’m a scrub. Or does she like me?”

“Miss that time too. Wish I was fifteen again, looking in the mirror, hoping arm hair would appear. I used to lie awake at night willing my pits and chin to sprout hair, thinking that would make girls like me.”

Antony could not relate to this. Girls had always liked him.

The snow was starting again. Antony watched some and wondered if that was a sign to go home. Despite himself, Antony opened his mouth and talked about how his daughters were fighting, how the church always felt (to him) like it could fall apart at any minute, and if he was even doing the right thing by raising his daughters around here. They only saw Black people they were related to. And, well, Malik. Antony and his ex-wife could agree on nothing. Dating prospects were all white women who seemed sweet, but he could see them earnestly saying things like “It doesn’t matter whether you’re black or white or green.” He didn’t want his kids around that. He wanted them to be happy with themselves, to love Black culture, and to find their places in it.

“There are white chicks and there are real ones,” Malik agreed. “It’s hard to find the real ones.”