The Space Before Feeling
I sit in the corner of the room
where the tree keeps twinkling
whether I look at it or not.
The menorah burns steady beside me,
each flame a small act of staying.
I don’t ask it for meaning.
I let it be here with me.
A holiday movie murmurs from the TV—
voices laughing on schedule,
joy arriving right when it’s supposed to.
I let the sound wash over me
without trying to follow it.
Everything around me glows,
and I notice how carefully I’m holding myself,
as if feeling too much
might break something
I’ve only just learned how to carry.
My wish this season
isn’t happiness.
It isn’t magic or healing or light
that fixes what’s been quiet for so long.
My wish is smaller,
and maybe braver:
to feel something—
not all at once,
not loudly,
only a quiet stirring
where the numbness has been resting.
And if it doesn’t come tonight,
I let myself believe this:
the lights can wait,
the flames will return tomorrow,
and I am still here,
making room.
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