‘…how there is always enough light to wake us up, to stir us, our soft bodies straining to find the way home…’

liezel graham

i would like to give you a talisman to hold onto when you are afraid, something soft and downy, a thing that doesn’t ask you for anything, a rare thing, like the hair on the back of a new-born baby’s head, how it still remembers the tender weight of the hands that spun it out of nothing—God, if you believe, otherwise you might call it a gossamer miracle, either way they are the same, but today i only have this—last night’s moonlight finding me in milky pools on the windowsill, the memory of it, and if you are able to see my words behind your eyes, there inside that vast hidden room in which only you know the furnishings of—the familiar feel of them, that rich inner cathedral to which you escape, then take this with you, a small thing to hold onto, a shape that might fit the palm of your hand as it moves at once to make a tight fist, to brace, to prepare for impact, but instead finding ribbons of light trailing all the way from sun to moon, hope reflected, a pure thing, how there is always enough light to wake us up, to stir us, our soft bodies straining to find the way home. i think this will be enough.

© Liezel Graham 2022.

{Image by Mikael Kristenson on Unsplash}

a small talisman for you, if you need it today.