The Light Is Already In The Steam

The water is loud enough to hide the sound, but not loud enough to wash away the weight. You stand there letting it run over you, crying so the house stays quiet, so the peace of the evening is not broken by your pain.

You think this hiding is a kindness. A protection.

But the light does not need your silence to be present. It is already in the steam.

It is already in the drain. There was a woman who wept at the feet of the light while everyone else ate, and he did not hush her.

He let her tears fall. He let them be the offering.

The gathering dark outside your window is real. But the light inside the bathroom is realer.

You do not have to hold the grief back until morning. The water knows how to carry what you cannot say.