The Light Does Not Hold Its Breath

The afternoon light is unforgiving. It exposes the dust motes dancing in the silence, the sweat on your brow, the sheer exhaustion of holding a body that is no longer your own.

In this long middle of the day, the mask slips. You feel the caregiver's hand linger a second too long while wiping your skin.

You realize they are holding their breath. They are trying not to smell the decay, the illness, the thing you have become.

Shame burns hotter than the sun. You wish you could disappear into the sheets, to stop being a burden, to stop being the reason someone has to hold their breath.

But listen. The light does not hold its breath.

The light does not recoil from the scent of broken flesh. Jesus touched the leper before he was clean.

He did not wear a mask. He leaned in.

The scent of your humanity did not drive him away; it drew him closer. The light is not repulsed by your condition.

It is drawn to the very place where you feel most unlovable. The shame says you are too much.

The truth says you are exactly where the light wants to be. The caregiver's breath may catch, but the light's embrace never tightens.

It only opens wider.