The Light Sits With You At One

The morning light catches the dust motes dancing above the table where you just set two plates. It is a reflex, a muscle memory of a life that existed yesterday.

You reach for the second plate, feel its weight, and then have to put it back in the cupboard. The silence of that single spot on the table is louder than any noise.

You smile at the mail carrier. You nod to the neighbor.

You perform the role of someone who is fine, someone whose morning routine is complete. But the gap between the mask you wear and the empty chair you see is a canyon.

The light does not ask you to take the mask off right now. It does not demand you fall apart in the kitchen.

It simply sees the plate you put away. It knows the habit that broke your heart for a second.

And in that knowing, it sits with you at the table for one. The light is not fooled by the performance, but it is not offended by it either.

It is the space between the plates where the love still lives.