A weekly light — poetry, stories, and reflections from the strange in-between.

Christmas has always felt like an ache to me.
Not joy. Not sorrow. Something in between.
A quiet melancholy that settles once the noise fades.

There’s longing in it—
not just for the past,
but for the innocence that believed moments could last
if you loved them hard enough.

The world gets loud leading up to it.
Lights. Music. Tradition.

Then morning comes fast and bright
and just as quickly, it’s over.
Not disappointing.
Just… gone.

Like fresh snow before the plows arrive—
beautiful for a moment,
then reduced to gray slush and tire tracks,
still cold, still real,
just no longer untouched.

I don’t feel excluded so much as out of phase,
like everyone else learned a rhythm
I never quite caught.
They move on easily.
I linger.

Maybe that’s the point.
Maybe some of us are meant to notice the thaw,
to feel the passage of time in our bones,
to carry the ache without trying to decorate it.

The quiet after Christmas isn’t empty.
It’s honest.
And I trust honesty more than cheer.

🕯️ Lantern Note:
The season makes a lot of promises. What stays after the lights go out is what I trust.

🕯️ For a new light every Thursday, subscribe to the Lantern.