Holy Trembling Hands in the Dawn

The sun is just beginning to touch the windowpane, turning the gray room into something softer, something survivable. You are standing there with your hands shaking, trying to force a childhood blanket into a black garbage bag because there is no other container large enough for this kind of grief.

It feels wrong to crush it like this—to ball up the warmth that once held you while you slept, to tie it shut in plastic meant for trash. But the light does not scold you for the method.

It sees the trembling fingers and calls them holy. The dawn is not asking you to be strong; it is simply arriving to witness that you are still here, still folding, still carrying the weight of what you cannot keep.

The bag will be tied. The sun will rise higher.

And the love that lived in that fabric did not stay in the threads—it moved into you.