The Light Remembers What You Cannot

The house is quiet now, and the only thing louder than the silence is the fear that your own memory is betraying you. You are terrified that every time you reach for their face, you are sanding down the edges of the real thing, replacing the living voice with a ghost you constructed yourself.

But the light does not forget what it has seen. Before you even called out, the light knew you were there, sitting in the dark, holding onto a name that feels like it is slipping away.

It saw you before you started trying to remember. The love that formed them is not stored in your fragile mind, where it might fade or blur.

It is held in a place where nothing decays and nothing is lost. You are not the keeper of their image.

You are just the one who loves them enough to be afraid of losing it. Let go of the tight grip on the details.

The face you cannot quite see tonight is still fully known by the one who made it.