Crow and Flame

Happy Easter.
Happy Sunday.
Happy day of being alive—
of surviving one more day.

The crow knows something about survival.
It does not ask the sky to be kind.
It does not wait for the storm to pass before it takes flight.
It flies anyway—
through wind, through cold, through the ache of empty branches.

And the flame—
the flame does not ask for perfect conditions either.
It flickers in the dark,
in the draft,
in the trembling spaces.
It bends, it gutters, it nearly goes out…
and still, it burns.

Maybe today you feel more like the crow—
watchful, quiet, carrying the weight of what has been
and what is missing.

Maybe you feel like the flame—
fragile, fighting to stay lit,
unsure how much longer you can keep glowing
with everything pressing in.

Or maybe you are both—
feather and fire,
grief and persistence,
hollow spaces and small, stubborn light.

If today doesn’t look like last year, that’s okay.
The crow does not measure its flight against yesterday’s sky.

If today feels heavy, that’s okay too.
Even the flame trembles before it steadies.

If your Easter doesn’t look like the neighbor’s—
if grand baskets don’t adorn your tables,
if eggs don’t scatter across your yard—
that’s okay.
Life is not a single story told the same way in every home.

Cost, illness, loss…
these things reshape the landscape.
They change what celebration looks like.
They change what survival looks like.

And if you are missing someone—
if there is a chair that sits too quietly,
a laugh that no longer rises to meet the room,
a presence that used to be as certain as sunrise—
that ache is real.

The crow remembers.
The crow returns to places where something once was
and feels the absence like a shift in the air.

The flame remembers too—
every wick it has ever lit,
every warmth it has ever given.

Acknowledge the feeling.
Let it perch beside you without forcing it away.
Let it flicker without trying to name it too quickly.

You do not have to turn this day into something it is not.
You do not have to perform joy to prove you are healing.
You do not have to silence your grief to make others comfortable.

Existing is enough today.
Breathing is enough today.
Holding even the smallest ember of yourself—
that is enough.

And if all you have is survival,
then you are already doing something brave.

The crow is still flying.
The flame is still burning.

And so are you.

I am with you.
I see you.