Something broke inside me—
or maybe it was fixed.
After all the grief,
all the leaving,
the world cracked open.

Now I feel everything:
the sadness braided into morning light,
the small astonishments of ordinary days,
the pulse of longing in an empty street.

It makes me think of my father—
how when the body failed,
his heart turned to water—
flooding with memory,
rising without shame.
crying at war movies,
crying when he spoke to me,
as if every word carried too much life to hold.

No armor left,
only the trembling gift
of seeing the world
lit from within—
even in its brokenness.

Maybe this is the real work:
to stay open,
to let the flood of it
carry me deeper
into the living world.