Dead Weight, Which Is Not an Insult

She fell asleep mid-sentence,

the way seven-year-olds do—

no warning, no transition,

just gone.

They handed her to me.

Her neck dropped to my shoulder

the way water finds a low place—

no argument, no holding on.

I carried her down the hall,

put her in the bed,

stood in the dark afterward

longer than I should have.

The weight had moved by then.

Not in my arms anymore.

Somewhere in the chest,

where I didn't know how to reach.