Stop Pouring for a Ghost

The kettle whistles, and your hands move before your mind catches up. Two mugs.

One for you, one for the space where a voice used to be. You stand in the quiet kitchen, holding the second cup, and the silence rushes in to fill the spot where a conversation should have started.

This is the exhale—the moment the performing stops and the absence becomes loud. But listen.

The light does not require a second cup to be present. It was in the steam rising from the first mug before you even poured it.

You are not alone in this kitchen; the love that holds you is not dependent on another pair of hands to receive it. The Father's light is already inside you, warming the cold spots memory leaves behind.

It does not need the second mug to be full. It only needs you to stop pouring for a ghost and start drinking from the life that is still here.