Here it is again: the weight I was built for.
All day you carry things that aren't heavy in any way I can feel. The one you call a deadline, which registers only as your teeth pressing together, a thin fast breath, a stomach that pulls in like it's bracing for a hit. I never see the deadline. I just clean up after it.
But this. This I understand completely. Six, maybe seven pounds, warm against the exact center of my chest, and every muscle I own reorganized itself in an instant to hold it, no memo, no debate. The forearms locked into a cradle they weren't asked to make. The shoulders, which have been up near the ears since roughly March, came down.
I did that. You didn't tell me to. Your breathing slowed to match the small fast one against your collarbone, and I let it, because that is the oldest instruction I have and I have never forgotten a word of it.
The knees are swaying. Feel that? Side to side, no music, a rhythm you never learned and I've always known. I kept it ready for you your whole life, folded up, waiting.
You're crying and I want you to know that isn't sadness leaking out. That's just more than I can hold, coming up through the throat where it's stored. Let it.
Only one thing. In a while, when you can, the arms will start to burn, a good clean ache, and you'll ignore it because you always do. When it comes: sit down. Let me set the weight on a pillow. I have carried you both now.
I would like, just for a moment, to be carried too.