The Dawn Rises For The One

The kettle whistles. The steam rises.

And your hands move before your mind catches up—setting out the second plate, the second cup, the space where someone used to sit. Then the silence rushes back in.

You remember. You are eating alone.

Again. The habit of love is heavier than the grief it tries to fill.

But look at the window. The sun is coming up anyway.

It does not wait for a crowd to break the dark. It rises for the one.

It rises for you. The light is not less real because the chair is empty.

The Father's love is not diminished because the table feels too wide. You are not forgotten just because the silence is loud.

The light was there before the loss, and it is here now, warming the side of your face while you eat. You do not have to clear the second plate to be held.

The dawn sees you. And it stays.