The Weight

My cousin came with a bad ankle.

Getting from the car to the house,

she needed an arm.

My hand on her back. Her weight

into my side. The heat of another body.

For a moment I felt it shift—

the reversal, a kind of gift—

I was the one holding.

And something in my muscle memory

went small again,

went back to when the ground went away,

back to when

someone else decided where I'd stay.

I can't remember who.

Or when it changed, when

I stopped being carried through

the world.

My cousin's arm around my shoulder.

She was heavier than I thought.

Not unpleasant. Just the weight

of another body I was caught

holding up.

Inside, she sat down.

The weight was gone.

My hand stayed shaped for holding on.

I wonder if this is the last time.

I wonder if the last time someone carried me

felt as simple to them,

as ordinary,

as this does now.