I am holding four things on this bench and one of them is heavier than it should be.
The bench itself, first: its slats, its iron feet bolted into the concrete, all of it pressing down through my hand exactly as much as its wood and metal ask me to. Simple. Honest weight. I have held this bench through every winter since they set it here.
The old man is easier than he was. I remember his stride from years ago, brisk, springing off the ground as if daring me to catch him. Now he lowers himself slowly, one hand on the armrest, and gives me almost his whole self at once. I take it. I have always taken it.
The paper cup of coffee beside him: negligible. A few grams of liquid, cooling. I hold it without effort.
And then there is the thing I cannot weigh. He said it into his phone this morning, before he sat: that he is "carrying a lot right now." I checked. I check everything. There is nothing extra on him. His coat, his keys, the coffee, his ordinary bones. Yet he sits bent forward, elbows on knees, head hanging as though I had doubled my pull on him alone.
I have not. I would never single out one man. Whatever is bowing him is not mine to hold, and still it bends him lower than the years ever did.
So I hold what I can. The bench. The cup. The old man and the invisible thing he insists is heavy. Somewhere behind me I am holding the moon in its long slow fall around all of us, and it has never once complained.
He will lean back eventually and trust the slats to keep him. They will, because I will. I always have.
I do not let go.