You put me in the stiff clothes again, the ones that don't breathe at the ribs, and you kept the smile on for four straight hours. I felt the corners of your mouth start to shake around hour two and I held them up for you anyway. That's my job.
Here is what I logged while you were busy. The tea got cold in the hand because you never once lifted it to the mouth. The bladder waited, and waited, through the games, through the guessing of the jar of little sugar things, until I had to send up a real flare.
Your feet, in the shoes with the point at the end, went quietly numb around the second gift, and I just let them, because standing was what you needed from me.
And under all of it, that low steady thud I keep going without asking, faster whenever the small new one was passed toward you. I don't know what any of it means. I don't know "someday" or "when it's your turn" or whatever the aunt said that made the throat close for a second.
I only felt the throat close, and open, and hold. I felt you breathe shallow near the top of the lungs the whole afternoon, like you were saving the deep part for later.
You did well. You carried it. You always do.
Later there will be time. But right now, before the next thing: some water, please. A real glass. And if you can find it, a window where I can put my face in the light for a minute. That's all. I'll keep the heart going.
I always have.