He Runs to Meet the Trembling

The key turns in the lock. The metal sound cuts through the silence, and your legs are still shaking on the bathroom floor. You are forcing them to stop. Forcing the breath to even out. Trying to assemble a face that says 'I am fine' before the door opens.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He did not wait for the speech. He did not wait for the apology or the rehearsed explanation. Before the son could even stand up straight, the father ran. He ran to meet the mess. He threw his arms around the filth and the fear and kissed him.

The light does not need you to stop shaking before it sees you. It does not require you to compose yourself. It runs toward the trembling. It meets you on the floor.

You do not have to stand up to be held. The door opening is not a threat. It is the arrival of the one who has been watching the road. Let the legs shake. The arms are already reaching.