I dreamt songs of hospitality, singing asylum to those fleeing storm and rout, cruelty and despair. It was a simple rule to live by: give home, give warmth, give food, give hope. In a major key lilting between harmonic minors like a call to prayer echoing over a cityscape older than my bloodline could hope to be. No matter how many mothers I can count back this song is older. Open your doors. Hold out your palms. Trace those lines of homehearthearth branching toward arteries and soul.