The Light Waits in the Steam

The house is quiet now, but the silence you carry is louder than any noise. You are dreading the morning, when you will have to stand in the kitchen and make coffee for the person you owe words to.

You know exactly how it will feel—the steam rising, the mug in your hand, the heavy air between you where an apology should be. You will want to pretend the silence never happened.

You will want to smile and look away. But the light does not need you to perform okayness.

It does not need you to fix everything before the sun comes up. 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 embrace came first. The words came later.

The light is already in the kitchen with you tomorrow. It is in the steam.

It is in the silence. And it is strong enough to hold the space until you are ready to speak.

You do not have to carry the weight of the unspoken night into the morning. The light will be there when you wake up.

It will be waiting for you to simply show up.