Holy Ground Where You Set Two Plates
The pot is still warm. You set two plates on the table before your hand remembers what your heart already knows: the second chair is empty.
And you freeze. The steam rises into a silence that feels too heavy to lift.
You made enough for two because that is who you were yesterday, or who you hoped to be tomorrow. But the light does not scold you for the extra portion.
It stands in the kitchen with you, in the smell of onions and the ache of habit. It sees the table set for a ghost and calls it holy ground.
You do not have to eat it all. You do not have to pretend the empty seat isn't there.
The light is enough to fill the space between the chairs.
Drawing from
John 8:10-11, Gospel of Thomas 70
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