Love That Runs Before Goodbye

The house is quiet, but your heart is loud with the fear of an empty room tomorrow. You are holding a child who might be pulled from your arms, and the love you feel is becoming a wound before the loss has even happened.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He ran.

Before the apology, before the speech — he ran. The light does not wait for certainty to move.

It runs toward the fragile thing right now. — The love you are pouring out is not wasted, even if the child leaves.

It is the very substance of the light working through you. You are not loving them so they will stay.

You are loving them because they are here. The light is not afraid of goodbyes.

It knows how to hold what is breaking. Let the tears come.

Let the fear sit beside you. You are not alone in this watch.

The light is the space between your arms and the child. It is the breath you share.

It cannot be taken away.