The Altar Where Love Still Burns

The afternoon light falls across the table, and your hands move before your mind catches up—setting two plates, two forks, the habit of a life that no longer exists. Then comes the pause.

The slow, sickening drop in your chest when you realize the second seat will remain empty. You stand there holding a fork that has nowhere to go.

The light does not scold you for the mistake. It does not rush to clear the table.

It stands with you in the silence of that unused place. There is a bruised reed the light will not break, and a smoldering wick it will not snuff out—even when that wick is your heart, flickering in the middle of a quiet Tuesday.

You are not failing because you forgot. You are loving in the only way you know how right now.

The table is not a testament to your loss; it is an altar where your love still burns. Come to the one who is gentle and humble in heart, and let the weight of the second plate be shared.