Festive Season

Christmas Eve

This evening does not ask me
to believe in it.
It arrives as all evenings do,
with light withdrawing
and the day placing itself
gently behind my shoulders.

Some mark it with candles,
with tables drawn close,
with names spoken carefully
so they will not break.
Some hold their breath for joy.
Some for survival.
Some move through it as through rain -
present, unremarkable, necessary.

I sit with the hour as it is.
Not resisting.
Not celebrating.
Just allowing it to keep its shape.

There are those who love this night
because it once loved them back.
There are those who endure it
because memory insists.
There are those who turn the key
and remain inside themselves,
keeping their hearts warm
by not opening the door.

I think of them all.

I think of the hands that will reach
across crowded tables,
and the hands that will rest
alone on a cup grown cold.
I think of the songs that will rise
and the silence that will answer elsewhere.
None of it wasted.
None of it small.

This night does not belong
to one meaning.
It makes room.

It makes room for faith
and for doubt,
for longing and for rest,
for those who remember too much
and those who are still waiting.

I walk through it without hurry.
The sky remains faithful to itself.
The earth does not ask me to explain.
Time keeps its slow, honest pace.

If there is grace here,
it is not loud.
It does not arrive wrapped.
It sits beside whoever notices
and says nothing at all.

And that, tonight,
is enough.