Sunbeam Records

 

Some believe your soul leaves a mark—

not in big achievements or dramatic stories,

but in where you choose to slow down and rest.

 

The sunbeam doesn’t announce itself.

It just lands quietly on the exact spot of floor

that stays warm too long,

where the dust drifts like tiny galaxies.

 

Then the keepers come—quiet and furry.

She’s there first, curled up like a comma.

He follows after a bit, stretching out beside her—

just close enough to mean “I care,”

but never touching. It’s comfort without cling.

Love, low-key.

 

They’re not writing history. They’re living it.

Eyes shut, paws folded, soaking in the light

and giving warmth back to it— a quiet loop

of presence too deep for words.

 

If you hang out nearby, just breathing easy,

you might feel time shift.

 

You’ll remember the smell of chalk and honeysuckle,

the bite of almost-ripe apples, the ache of watching

someone wash dishes without speaking.

 

And when one of the cats yawns, stretches,

as if flipping open an old page, you’ll feel it:

This moment matters. You’re allowed to pause, too.

Soak it in. Save it.

 

Sunbeams don’t waste a thing.