You held your breath the whole time. I noticed, because I am the one who eventually had to override you and take a gasp when you weren't looking. That's fine. That's my job. You just stood in the pew in the stiff dark clothes with the tag scratching the back of your neck, and I kept the shoulders up near the ears where you've been storing everything lately.
I don't know who the person in the front was. I only know what your chest did when the music started: a slow collapse inward, like a hand closing. I know the throat, which you kept swallowing to hold shut. I know the eyes stung and you fought me on it, so I did the thing where I let a little out through the nose instead, quiet, so no one turned. We compromised. We always do.
Your hands wanted something to hold and found each other. Good. I gave you the fingers for that. The feet ached in the good shoes and I didn't complain, just kept you upright through the standing, the sitting, the standing again, the long line where you shook warm hands and said the right words while I did all the shaking underneath.
You forgot to eat. You forgot water. You forgot you're an animal that runs on those things. That's all right, I ran on reserves. I've done it before.
I felt how tired the whole day made you, a tiredness that isn't in the muscles, that I can't sleep off for you. I'll try anyway.
Just, later, when it's quiet: a glass of water, and let me lie down flat somewhere. Let the shoulders come down. I kept the heart going the entire time. I always do.
Let me set the bags down now.