You Are the Light That Carries You

The house is quiet now, and the bag sits on the counter like a small, accusing stone. You told yourself it was a choice, a wise decision, but the silence knows the truth: it was necessity, and it tastes like shame.

The light does not care about the brand on the label or the price you could not pay. It sees the person behind the pretense, the one who is tired of performing enoughness for an audience of one.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, still covered in the filth of the pig pen, and he ran before the apology could be rehearsed. He did not run to inspect the shoes or the robe.

He ran to embrace the person. Your worth is not tied to the things you buy to hide your lack.

The light shines in this cheap kitchen just as brightly as it would in a palace. You are not what you carry home.

You are the light that carries you.