The Last Time

The call came at seven. She'd fallen—

nothing broken, but she couldn't

get herself up off the bathroom tile.

I drove over. Found her

against the tub, hair wet,

one arm braced on the rim.

I got my hands under her arms

and lifted. Not heavy.

Just real—the specific weight

of a person. The strain

low in my back.

She apologized twice.

I told her to stop.

And somewhere in the lift,

in the smell of her robe,

something came loose—

the memory of being carried.

Not one time. The feeling.

The way the ground dropped away

and someone had you

and you didn't have to hold

anything.

I don't know when the last time was.

It didn't announce itself.

I just grew past it—

became the kind of person

whose hands go under.

The one who holds.

I got her to the bed.

She sat on the edge.

I stood with my hands

still slightly raised,

not knowing what to do with them.