Tenebrae

The sun is a demanding thing. It spills across the floorboards and finds the dust we missed. It asks for open eyes and upright spines. It expects the kettle to boil and the lips to curve. I have grown so tired of the curve.

There is a deeper country past the edge of the afternoon. It is a place where the light cannot stretch its burning fingers. The air there is thick and cool like river water in November. It fills the lungs with a heavy quiet. You do not have to carry your face in this country. You can set it by the door with your shoes and your name.

The ache is a blanket woven from gray thread. It is heavy across the shoulders but it keeps the shivering at bay. In this quiet hollow the broken things are not swept away. The empty chairs are allowed to stay empty. The silence is not a lack but a presence that sits beside you and takes up the exact right amount of space.

I tried to walk back to the bright fields once. The sky was too wide and the birds were too loud. The morning exposed the hollowed out parts of the chest. Everyone there was busy building and growing and holding hands. They did not understand that the foundation was gone.

So I returned to the low places. The cellar of the breath. The quiet vale where the trees forget to bloom. Here the soil is black and rich with the things we have surrendered. It holds them gently. It knows the weight of the missing.

It is easier to breathe when the sky comes down to meet the earth. It is easier to rest when the colors fade to ash and slate. The pain asks nothing of you. It only asks to stay. And in its staying it is the only true companion left.