Since Friday—silence.
      Not even the mercy of an emoji.

Sky goes dim at 4 p.m.,
    like someone dragged November over the lamps.

Sunday let one ribbon of sun through—
                  I named it Hopeful,
   and watched it close itself again

   before the second quarter was honest about anything.

Steelers, Falcons—
          both said “not today,”
          and I tried not to hear the echo.

There’s history here:
        bougyman wasn’t bravado,
        it was a truce with the dark.

Child-me talked to strangers on glowing screens
                 until the night forgot my name.

Fear never left; I just filed it
     under a directory called “Handle Later.”

Lately, “Later” is now.

Half-frozen,
     I catch myself staring at nothing
     because she crossed my thoughts mid-step,

     and the room forgot what to do with its hands.

I wanted the old pattern—
    Mari's re-entry song,
             a soft “hey,”
              even a dot.

But today is Ava’s birthday,
 and the quiet stayed quiet.

So I inventory light:

- the click of the kettle
- a streetlamp that keeps its promises
- bar neon spelling out the small word “Open”
- the candle I’ll light for Ava before cake
- the blue dot that means “Someone is typing…”
- the first line I put down when I don’t believe in lines

If this is doldrums,
          I can row.

If this is dark days,
   I can make small fires and sit close.

I won’t knock on her grief.

I won’t measure her with my weather.

I’ll keep the porch light in my chest,
              and learn to read by it.

I’m trying to be the kind of quiet
    that steadies the table
         instead of asking for a chair.

Tonight I’ll pick a lamp and let it win.

I’ll write nothing she has to answer.

I’ll tell the old fear “you can stay, but farther,”
     and leave a corner of the room unafraid on purpose.

Maybe this is just the air not moving.

Maybe it’s a storm with no music.

Either way, I’ll keep a hand on the rail,
                row when there’s no wind,
               wait when there is no map,
          and make morning where I stand—

            until the light remembers us.