The Faithful Space

Leaning in,
I grip the handle like a pen,
rest my middle finger
against your cheek,
a small anchor
steadying us both.

Light moves forward,
finding its way inside.
The perspective comes slowly
in pieces.
Then it holds.

A membrane thin as tissue,
yet taut as a drumskin,
catching light,
so delicate
I forget how much it carries.

Behind it
a tiny bone waits,
precisely placed,
ready to pass sound on
as it always has.

Everything here feels intentional.
Built to listen.

I slow without meaning to.
Something about seeing it
asks for quiet.

This small space works faithfully,
holding voices,
laughter,
someone's name called across a room,
music,
the noise of living,
sending them forward
and connecting us to people
without asking to be noticed.

Learning how to see,
I realize how much wonder
lives in the smallest places
and how rare it is
to be allowed
to see them at all.