The Sacred Meal For One

The stove clicks off. The smell of food fills a kitchen built for a crowd.

You set the table, and the absurdity hits you hard—one plate, one chair, one silence where a conversation should be. It feels like a performance no one is watching, a ritual with no audience but your own hunger.

But the light does not measure worth by the number of seats filled. There was a widow who dropped two small coins into a treasury, and the light stopped everything to say she gave more than all the rich men combined.

She gave out of her poverty, all she had to live on. The light saw her when no one else did.

It sees you too. The meal is not small because the table is empty.

It is sacred because you are there. The mask says this is pathetic.

The truth says this is enough. You are not eating alone; you are dining with the presence that fills the room.