The Light Between Two Cups

The kettle whistles. The light is gray and thin.

You reach for two cups before your hand remembers the silence in the room. That pause — that split second of forgetting — is not a failure.

It is a testament to a love that was real. The sun is rising anyway, spilling gold on the empty chair.

The light does not scold you for the habit of hospitality. It sits with you in the space between the two cups and the one person.

You are not alone because the table is full. You are held because the light is here, waiting for you to drink from the cup you did pour.

The morning does not ask you to stop loving the one who is gone. It only asks you to notice that you are still here to receive it.