The Guest Who Sits in Absence

The steam rises from the pot, filling a kitchen that feels too large for one person. You set the table out of habit—two plates, two forks, the muscle memory of a life that included someone else.

Then you stop. The second plate sits there, empty and accusing, until you reach out and put it away.

That small motion hurts more than the silence does. But listen—the light does not require a full table to be present.

It is not frightened by the extra chair or the quiet clink of silverware. In this watch of the night, when the house is still and the grief is loud, the light is not waiting for a crowd.

It is the guest that sits with you in the absence. You are not eating alone.

You are being fed by a love that sees the empty space and fills it with something stronger than memory.