Glass Eyes

It was too early for thoughts,

yet I opened my eyes

and met a silence

that wasn’t mine.

A shape

outlined by the soft gray of morning—

antlers, breath, stillness.

A deer.

Standing just outside my window,

like it had nowhere else to be.

It didn’t flinch.

Neither did I.

We were both caught

in a moment

that asked nothing

but presence.

I remembered my father saying

deer always carry something from the forest

inside their eyes—

not fear,

but memory.

A kind of

quiet knowing.

And suddenly I realized:

I hadn’t felt

anything real

in weeks.

The deer blinked.

I held my breath.

The world paused,

long enough

for my chest to ache

in a way

that wasn't heavy,

just forgotten.

It didn’t stay.

Nothing wild ever does.

But it turned its head,

slow and soft,

as if saying,

“You’re still here.

You’re still human.”

Then it vanished

into the morning

like it had never been.

I didn’t cry.

But I opened the window.

Let the air in.

Let the ache in.

Let the stillness

stay

a little longer

before the world asked me

to move again.

We wait for signs, for answers, for grand gestures.

But sometimes healing comes on four silent legs,

with eyes that don’t speak—but still understand.

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