The second day of Christmas.

"When everything is quiet, peace remains."

There is a day we talk less about.

We don't prepare for it.

We don't decorate.

We don't wait for it with gifts.

This is the second day of Christmas.

When the candles have burned out, the plates have been washed, the sentences have been said, and no one wants to add anything more.

This is the day when silence is not a lack.

But a residual peace.

The world then takes back its voice.

Not because it is tired,

but because it has nothing to prove.

Those who were alone yesterday no longer feel lost today.

Those who were with others can finally be with themselves today.

This day does not hold you accountable.

It does not measure whether the holiday was successful.

It does not count who received what, it only shows what is left.

And if there is anything left, it is not the object, not the food, not the word.

But the calm.

The kind of calm that is not loud, does not want to be happy, but is true.

On the second day of Christmas, love no longer seeks an opportunity.

It is simply present.

It does not need a tree.

It does not need a string of lights.

A slow morning, a glass of warm drink, a window where you do not have to look out is enough.

And at that moment you understand: the holiday was not important, but what remains with us afterwards.

If the silence remains, then Christmas has not passed.

It has only been transformed.

This day does not ask for anything.

It just allows us to be.

And that is right.

Amen.