The Light Sits With You

The morning light is gray and quiet, and your hand moves before your mind catches up. You reach for the extra plate, the second cup, the space where they always sat.

It is a reflex older than grief, a habit carved into your bones by years of shared meals. Then the silence hits you.

The empty chair is not a mistake; it is the new truth. The sun is rising anyway, spilling gold across the table where they used to be.

You do not have to clear the place setting today. You do not have to explain the absence to the light that fills the room.

It sees the empty seat, and it sits with you in the space where the love remains. The grief is just the love looking for a place to land.

Let it land here, in the dawn, without the plate.