The Light Waits in the Cold Water

The water has turned cold, but you stay under the spray because stopping feels like surrendering to the weight waiting on the other side of the steam. You keep moving, scrubbing, shifting your feet, convinced that if you just keep the routine going, the grief won't be able to touch you.

But the light does not need you to perform endurance to be present with you. It is already in the chill of the water and the ache in your tired legs.

There is a promise that the one who is inside you is greater than the heaviness trying to drown you. You can turn the handle.

You can let the silence rush in. The grief may come, but it will not be alone — the light will be there too, holding you when your knees finally give out.