Tell Me How to Hold a Miracle Without Shaking
They asked me, How much could you love him? I said -- I love him to mornings with no names, to hands that remembered warmth before they remembered prayer. I love him to the rhythm of breathing, and stillness, and the way silence waits for someone to come home. I love him to the end of everything, and still, somehow, to the beginning. Now I have one foot on slippery moss, the other on firm ground. I reach for something—anything— to hold me steady, but my hands find only air. He can’t catch me this time. He can’t pull me back. Not when he is both— the ground beneath me, the fall I cannot stop. He is safety and risk, the edge and the anchor, my life and my undoing. And as I slip, I wonder, Was I ever standing at all?
