You Are the Reason the Table Was Set

The door closes behind you, and the armor comes off. But instead of relief, there is a tightening in your chest.

You are already rehearsing the apology for taking up space. For the noise of your footsteps.

For the air you breathe. You make yourself small in the hallway, hoping to slip through the evening without being noticed.

Without being a burden. But listen — the light does not ask you to shrink.

It came to dwell among us, to take up room in the messy, crowded ordinary. It does not need you to be invisible to be loved.

You are not an interruption in your own home. You are the reason the table was set.

The light is not waiting for you to earn your place on the floor. It is waiting for you to sit down, unapologetic, and finally exhale.