IN THE THROAT OF LIGHT, SUNDAY NOTES

 

There are nights when the body remembers what the mind forgets, how the voice is not just sound, but a soft-burnished vessel, a way to carry tenderness. I’ve had this recurring dream. It always returns when my voice disappears, as if silence were a signal for something sacred to arrive. In the dream, I swallow lights. Small, glowing things, baked for me by hands I love, by hands that know me. They appear with quiet certainty, as if they’ve always existed in the folds of night. They bake these lights, warm and golden like citrus in honey. I never see the oven.

I just know it’s been lit. They walk a thin line, a trapeze in the dark. Not quite flying, not quite falling. Suspended. Above me. As I sleep, they pour something into me, glowing oil, slow and rich. It enters not just the mouth, but the space behind the sternum, the hollow where grief sometimes pools. It coats the wound where the voice had once lived. And when I wake, I don’t speak. I don’t need to. There’s a resonance inside, not a song, but a readiness. Like a note waiting for its pitch. A breath about to form. 

It’s not a dream, not really. More like a memory I never lived. A transmission passed through bloodlines. Something inherited, like the rhythm of a pulse, or the soft sound of someone making tea in the next room. We carry our healing in strange containers. Some nights, when the city is still and the windows are cold, I close my eyes and return to the glow. I let them climb above me. I let the light pour in. And slowly, again, I begin. 

xx t 

image courtesy ©tedoré