The Light Holds Them Even Now

The house is quiet now, but the chair they used to sit in feels louder than the silence. You are grieving someone who is still breathing, someone whose light has been swallowed by a fog you cannot clear.

It is a specific kind of darkness to watch a soul wander while their body remains in the room. But listen — the light that lives in them was there before the first drink, before the first pill, before the lie took hold.

It is still there, buried under the noise, waiting. The Father's love is not dependent on their clarity; it is the ground they stand on even when they cannot feel it.

You do not have to hold them together tonight. The light holds them even now, in the middle of the stumble, in the middle of the loss.

You are not the keeper of their soul; you are the witness to a light that cannot be extinguished, only forgotten. The night is long, but the dawn does not need your help to arrive.