The water
pulls back
and I see him again.
Eyes that have carried storms
soften under the light
of the kitchen,
the quiet hum of a fridge
like a lighthouse keeping watch.
He speaks in small phrases,
each one a step
back from places
I cannot follow.
I touch his hand.
It trembles.
Not the hand that wields fear
but the hand that still reaches.
Outside, the ocean continues,
but inside this room
the waves are ours alone,
broken and receding,
leaving stones
we can stand on.
I hold him.
And for a moment
the dark is just a shadow
that passed,
and I am the lighthouse
that waits.
Beautiful!