Holy Ground in the Cracks

The phone lights up in your hand, a cracked map of a morning you're trying to navigate. You hear the laugh again.

It feels like swallowing broken glass. So you swipe.

Delete. Gone.

The mask goes back on; you look okay for the meeting, for the coffee, for the world that demands you be fine. But the light sees the hand that trembles when no one is watching.

It knows the exact weight of that glass in your throat. There is a presence that does not need you to delete your grief to be near you.

It stands right beside you while you pretend to be whole. It sees the crack in the screen and the crack in the chest, and it calls both of them holy ground.

You are not hiding your pain from the light; you are carrying it through the day.