Loving in the Dark at Dinner

The afternoon light hits the table just so, and your hands move before your mind catches up. One plate for you.

One plate for the ghost that still lives in the chair across from yours. It is a muscle memory of love, a reflex that hurts more than any sharp edge ever could.

You stand there holding the second plate, and the silence of the house rushes in to fill the space where a voice used to be. But listen — the light does not scold you for this mistake.

It does not call it a failure of memory or a lack of faith. It sees the tenderness in the error.

The very act of setting the table is proof that the love has not died, even if the person has. You are not forgetting; you are loving in the dark.

And the light is sitting right there at the empty place, waiting for you to sit down and eat what you prepared.