Light Sitting With You in the Hollow

The afternoon light falls across the crib you prepared, illuminating dust motes dancing in a silence that was never meant to be this still. You walk in and the air feels heavy, not with presence, but with the shape of someone who never arrived.

It is easy to believe the light has abandoned this room, that the silence is a verdict on your hope. But there is light within a person of light, and it lights up the whole world—even this world of empty wood and folded blankets.

The darkness you feel is not the absence of the divine; it is the place where the unseen is waiting to become plain. You came from the light, and that origin cannot be erased by an empty cradle.

The love you poured into this room did not vanish; it remains, a silent testament to a bond that death could not sever. The light does not demand you fill the space; it simply sits with you in the hollow.