Let the Light Hold You While You Weep

The water is hot, but the silence in your head is louder. You are standing in the middle of the day, trying to wash off a grief that has no name, and you realize you cannot remember the sound of your own laughter from before this started.

It feels like a death. Like the person who knew how to be light has been erased.

But listen — there was a man born blind, and his neighbors argued over who sinned to make him this way. The light said: neither.

This happened so the works of God might be displayed in him. Your blindness to your own joy is not a punishment.

It is the canvas. The light is not asking you to manufacture a smile you cannot feel.

It is asking you to sit in the dark with it until the eyes open. You do not have to find the laughter today.

You only have to let the light hold you while you weep. The sound will return, but for now, the tears are enough.