Little Moments

Little moments
little moments.

That is how I survive
the enormous things.

Not by becoming brave
all at once
not by understanding
what keeps hurting me

but by returning
to the small life
that waits for me
without asking questions.

It is Sunday afternoon.

The rain has passed.
The light is back
on the windows
like nothing happened

and maybe that is what light does
it returns
without explaining
where it has been.

And I am here
trying to gather myself
without making a scene.

A cup of water.
A shirt pulled over my head.
My feet on the floor.

The room quiet enough
to hear what I have been carrying.

Then my own hand
my left hand crossing over
to grip the indentation
of my ribs

that small hollow
my body made
as if it knew
I would need somewhere
to hold on.

Not softly.

More like instinct.

Like a woman
holding herself closed
so nothing tender
falls out.

And almost at once
my head tilts to the right

my face finding
the slope of my shoulder
the warm place
between skin and arm

and I breathe myself in.

Not perfume.
Not anything placed there
for the world.

Only clean skin.

Only the quiet scent
of having been
in water too long

that soft, familiar scent
of clean skin
after too much water.

And something in me
recognizes it
as happiness.

Small happiness.
Private happiness.

The kind no one sees
because it happens
inside the body
before it becomes
a word.

And there it is—
the strange mercy
of my own life.

My ribs under my palm.
My breath still rising.
My face against my shoulder.

My own scent
calling me back
to myself.

There is magic in that.

Not the kind
that arrives loudly
or saves the room
from burning.

The other kind.

The kind that stays
with you
in the ordinary light.

The kind that says
without words:

come back.

Come back
to the body.

Come back
to the cup of water
the clean shirt
the floor beneath you.

Come back
to the light
moving across the room
as if it still believes
there is something here
worth touching.

Come back
to this Sunday afternoon
that has no idea
how much beauty
it is asking you
to survive.

Little moments
little moments.

The ribs.
The breath.
The hand.
The shoulder.
The skin.

The life
that does not leave me
even when I forget
how to stay.

And still
somehow

I do.