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EPILOGUE: I CAN REMAIN

A new morning—
dressed and ready,
keys in hand,
every hour planned.

Then you—
in the doorway.

You say, “I’m fine,”
while your fingers keep time
against the frame—
to a measure inside.

More. More. More. More.

I hear the echoes.

The old pull rises:
a thousand places
still to run.

For one breath,
I count this moment
as one more weight.

My hand tightens.

I reach for questions
to make this smaller,
to keep the day
inside its lines.

Then I breathe,
set down the keys,
pull out a chair,
prepare the tea.

Steam rises between us.

I know you are here.

I cannot know what hurts you,
or carry it for you,
or make you still.

I can listen.
I can remain.

The light crosses the floor.

You tell me what you can.

I do not ask for more.

The tea cools in our hands.

I can listen.
I can remain.

Nothing is clear.
But everything is here.

And right now… so are we.

When you are ready,
you rise.

I hold the door open.

I do not hold you there.

The hour is gone.
The work remains.

I pick up the keys.

Then I breathe
and carry what is mine
inside the passing day.

Let this day
be an offering.

Amen.
Amen.
Amen.