The Father Runs Before You Speak

The house is quiet now, and the shadows are stretching long across the floor. You sit beside the one you love, terrified that if they look too closely, they will see the hollow space behind your eyes and realize they married a stranger.

You hold your breath, waiting for the moment the mask slips. But there was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — while the son was still far away, while the shame was still covering his face, the father ran.

He did not wait for the explanation. He did not wait for the stranger to become familiar again.

He ran to meet the emptiness and filled it with his arms. The light does not need you to perform familiarity to be loved.

It sees the distance and crosses it before you can speak. You are not a stranger to the light, even when you feel like one to yourself.

The terror says you must be known to be held — the truth says you are held so that you can finally be known.