The Light Hears the Song Underneath

The sun is up, but the words feel heavy in your mouth. You try to sing the old song, the one that used to fit your tongue like breath, and you stumble. The accent you carried away has thickened into a wall between you and the memory of her voice. It feels like you have forgotten how to be her child.

But the light does not speak in perfect phonetics. It speaks in the longing that breaks the syllable.

There is a home being prepared where every stutter is understood, where the stammer is not a failure but a familiar rhythm. The Father is not waiting for your elocution. He is waiting for your return.

You do not have to pronounce the past correctly to be loved in the present.

The light hears the song underneath the stumble.