Joy lives here even when I suspect it has lost its way, broken the GPS and took a long nap at a rest stop.
Joy lives here even when I am calling repairmen, performing feats of verbal gymnastics trying to fix this house so I can finally say good-bye to it.
Joy lives here even when I am dead tired and on my upteemth week of forgetting to take all of my vitamins.
Joy lives here even when I am terrified my words will never be embraced or I will never be understood.
Joy lives here even when the fullness of my Black womanhood is in question–my competency, the bounds of my love, intellect and the sanctity of my vulnerability.
Joy lives here because I ask it to move in every day. Move into the creases and the folds and the skin and the breath.
Joy, I ask you to stay.
Joy, I ask you to come home.