The Light Waits in the Driveway

The engine is off, but you are still holding your breath. Twenty minutes of sitting in the dark driveway because the mask feels glued to your skin and you cannot bear to peel it off yet.

The house is waiting. The people inside are waiting.

But you are just staring at the steering wheel, too exhausted to become real again. There was a woman who bled for twelve years, spending everything she had, growing worse under the care of many, until she finally reached out from the crowd just to touch the edge of a garment.

She did not need a speech. She did not need to be clean first.

She just needed to reach. The light felt it immediately and turned around to call her Daughter.

You do not have to take the mask off before you go inside. You do not have to fix your face or summon energy you do not have.

The light is already in the driveway with you, sitting in the passenger seat, waiting for you to stop performing. It knows the weight of the armor you wore today.

It is not asking you to be strong. It is asking you to be still.

The mask can wait. The light sees the face underneath it, and it is enough.