🌕 The Place Where I Remember

I remember God

not in the thunder

but in the clink of dishes

washed before sunrise

so the house could wake soft.

I remember myself

in the mirror I wiped clean

with the edge of my sleeve—

still wet from her bath,

still milk-sweet with sleep.

I remember the ache

and how even that was holy.

I remember the breath

I didn’t know was a prayer

until it held her

longer than it held me.

I remember forgetting, too—

the days I believed

I was too broken to carry light.

But God

was still in the room.

Quiet.

Warm.

Waiting for me

to see myself again.

And I did.

Just once.

Enough.

And everything began to sing.