The Light Runs Toward You

The sun is up, and you are carrying a weight that feels like betrayal. To laugh at a joke, to taste the warmth of bread, feels like a theft from the one who can never laugh or eat again.

You think your joy insults their silence. But listen — the light did not wait for your permission to rise.

It came anyway. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He ran. Before the apology, before the speech — he ran.

The light runs toward you in this ordinary morning. It does not demand that you stay in the dark to prove your love.

Your breathing is not a betrayal. Your capacity to feel warmth is not a failure of loyalty.

It is the very thing they would want for you. The grief is real.

And so is this new day.