The Light Meets You in the Trembling

The day is done. The door is closed.

And you are standing in the kitchen, rinsing your mouth with mint so they won't smell the wine, hiding your shaking hands behind your back when they reach for you. You tell them you're just tired.

You lie because the truth feels too heavy to carry into their innocence. But the light does not need your clean breath or your steady grip.

It saw the bottle. It felt the tremor.

And it is not shocked. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off—dirty, broken, rehearsing a speech about unworthiness.

He did not wait for the apology. He ran.

Before the words could form, he was already there, arms open, kissing the filth. You do not have to scrub yourself clean before you are held.

The mint is for them. But the trembling?

That is where the light meets you. Not to scold the shake, but to hold the hand that shakes.

The mask comes off now. The exhale begins.

You are not loved because you are steady. You are loved because you are you.