How We Stay Lit

Winter arrives without apology.
It closes its hands around the hours,
tightens the air until even silence shivers.
The world grows careful.
Footsteps soften.
Voices lower.
Everything essential learns how to last.
In this season, warmth is no longer loud.
It does not roar or demand attention.
It survives in fragments—
a candle steady on the sill,
its flame no bigger than a thought,
yet brave enough to stand against the dark.
That small light gathers the room gently,
pulling shadows closer,
teaching them how to rest.
It does not banish the cold.
It negotiates with it.
Small heat lives in the pause
between breaths fogging the window,
in the way hands linger around a cup
long after the tea has cooled.
It hums quietly in wool scarves,
in coats that still remember yesterday’s body.
There is warmth in presence, too—
a shoulder leaned into at a bus stop,
a shared silence that does not need words.
Two breaths syncing,
creating a fragile pocket of mercy
inside the frost.
Winter compresses the world,
but small heat resists by expanding inward.
It teaches patience.
It teaches listening.
It teaches that survival is not always grand—
sometimes it is careful and deliberate,
a decision made again and again
to stay lit.
A lamp left on in an empty room
becomes a promise.
A quiet reminder that someone will return,
that absence is temporary,
that darkness does not own the final word.
How we stay lit is not by overpowering the cold,
but by softening its edges.
By holding space for gentleness
when the season insists on hardness.
And when spring finally loosens winter’s grip,
it will not remember the storms first.
It will remember the lights that stayed on.
The hands that held.
The flames that refused to go out.

Thanks for reading