the way the light hit the chipped paint on the porch swing, not gold, not quite, more like… a memory of gold, and it made me think of all the things we carry that aren’t shiny, aren’t perfect, the worn edges of ourselves we try to hide, but maybe that’s where the real light comes from, the places we’ve been broken and put back together, not perfectly but… somehow stronger. i keep thinking about her saying i changed her life and the way my throat closed up, not because i don't believe her, but because i don't know what to do with that, like… i don’t know how to hold that bigness. maybe you don't hold it, maybe you just let it flow through you, let it water the parts of yourself that are still growing, still reaching, maybe that’s all any of us are, just conduits for something bigger, something that wants to bloom, and soleil, she just keeps purring, like she already knows. The cracks let the light in – that's what they say, isn't it? But it's not just light, it's air, it's space for something NEW to grow from the scar tissue. Like a kintsugi bowl, holding more than it ever could before.