Your Steady Voice Holds The Story

The day is finally ending, and the armor you wore for twelve hours is heavy on your shoulders. You are afraid that when you tell the story of how they died, your voice will sound too steady.

Too calm. As if a steady voice means you didn't love them enough.

As if the tremor is the only proof of the grief. But the light does not measure your love by the shake in your hands.

There was a woman who stood behind the light, weeping until her tears wet his feet, and she said nothing at all. Her silence was not empty; it was full.

Your steady voice is not a betrayal. It is the vessel that holds the story when your hands are too tired to hold it.

The light is not in the crack of your voice. It is in the telling itself.