memory

But then something odd happened. One morning as I was pulling myself together for the day, I ran across a file for Louis Armstrong and His Hot Five on my laptop, hit play, and felt the world stop. I’d listened to those recordings a thousand times. But there in Damascus, a city that somehow manages to give off both Biblical and East-Germany-in-the-70s vibes, it sounded different. It sounded like it fit. There amidst the minarets, I’d stumbled upon my own call to prayer.