The body is on the bed, and the bed is on the floor, and the floor is on the world, and the world is on me. Good. That is the arrangement. That is what I hold.
But the human is not sleeping. The human is lying flat, which I approve of, releasing its full weight into the mattress the way it should, and yet one arm is raised, holding the small bright rectangle up against my pull, hour after hour. This is the only part of the human working against me tonight, and it is winning.
I let it. I hold the elbow up, gently, so the arm does not fall on the face. I have done this all night. It has not noticed. They never do.
I am puzzled by what is happening inside the human. The thumb pushes upward and the light scrolls and something arrives that the human calls heavy: a heavy piece of news, a heavy feeling, the whole heavy world at once. I measured it. The rectangle weighs a few ounces. The words on it weigh nothing at all.
And yet the human sinks. The chest presses deeper into the bed, the shoulders curl inward, the whole body draws itself smaller, as though I had leaned on it harder. I did not lean harder. I checked. Whatever is pulling the human down at 2am, it is not me.
So I do the one thing I know. I hold the phone up when the arm goes slack. I hold the tears against the cheek so they run down and not away. I hold the tired body to the earth, and the earth to its slow turn, and the moon out there in its long patient fall that never lands.
I have held you every night of your life. Even this one.
Especially this one.