The Light Waits for the Tremble

The morning light hits the kitchen table and your hand stops mid-reach, remembering the last time it was pushed away. You wear the mask of okayness so well that even you almost believe it, but the flinch is real.

The memory says: do not try again. It says: keep your hands to yourself.

But there is a voice that speaks to the tremor in your fingers before you even move. It does not demand a grand declaration of love.

It simply sees the hesitation and says: your faith has healed you. Go in peace.

The light is not waiting for a perfect reach. It is waiting for the tremble.

You are not defined by the pull-away. You are defined by the fact that your hand is still hovering, still willing to risk the touch.

The mask can stay on for now. Just let the hand stay open.