The Light Waits in the Driveway

The engine cuts out and the silence rushes in to fill the space you kept noisy all day. Now you are alone with the rearview mirror, staring at a face that doesn't quite look like yours anymore.

You practice the relaxation. You smooth the forehead.

You lift the corners of your mouth until they mimic peace. But the light inside you does not need you to fix your expression before you come inside.

It saw you in the traffic. It felt the tension in your jaw when the world was heavy.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — dirty, tired, rehearsing a speech he never got to finish. The father did not wait for the mask to drop.

He ran. He ran to meet you exactly as you are, still holding the steering wheel, still wearing the exhaustion.

You do not have to compose yourself to be loved. The light is already in the driveway, waiting for the real you to walk through the door.