A Small Experiment with Silence

When someone speaks to me with winter in their voice
or lets their hand fall carelessly across my day,
I try not to answer with cold.

I know how easily frost spreads.

There were years when I walked through long nights
where the air felt hollow
and the bell of the heart rang
without anyone coming.

Sorrow teaches strange lessons.
It sharpens the eyes.

After a while you begin to notice
how many people carry a quiet wound
the way birds carry the wind inside their wings.

So when I am hurt
I try not to plant hurt in return.

Instead I leave something small behind—
a word,
a pause,
a bit of warmth the size of a candle.

You never know who might need it.

Christmas comes in the same quiet way.
A little light in the dark months.
A reminder that gentleness
is still possible.

And that somewhere
someone is standing at the edge of the room,
cold, unsure,
hoping the door will open.

I want to be the one who opens it.

Not with a blazing fire
that burns itself out by morning,
but with a steady lamp
that says simply:

Come in.
You are not alone tonight.