I Will Not Let the Light Leave Me

When the day presses its weight on my shoulders, and I feel like snapping— I don’t. Instead, I hum lullabies to the heat, let it wrap around me like my daughter’s sleepy arms. Even the ache, even the silence— I will not curse it. I will be the water, the shade, the soft place to land. Even for you. Even for what hurt me. Even still, I will offer the light back. Because something inside me remembers: how the sun still rose after the funeral, how the grass didn’t stop growing just because I did. I remember the stillness of a moment before the tears— the quiet that split me wide enough to let light in. I remember the prayer that didn’t change anything except my breath. I remember learning that gentleness is a decision, not a weakness— a kind of rebellion in a world that sharpens everything into survival. And so, I choose again— to kneel before the day, to cup it in open hands, to let it melt in my palms like ice catching sunlight. Not because I’m unbroken, but because I finally know where to place the brokenness— somewhere soft. Somewhere warm. I will not let the light leave me. Not even now. Not even when it flickers.