Small Backs

The kid nearly fell on the stairs,

his backpack dragging him down,

the straps cutting red lines

into his small shoulders.

I watched him struggle. The marks

visible even from a distance—

the physical weight of what he carries,

the effort in every muscle.

His spine curved under it all,

and I wanted to tell him something,

wanted to say that it gets lighter,

that eventually you learn to carry less.

But he was just a body

bent under the burden,

and I was just a stranger

watching him climb.

The marks on his shoulders

stayed with me. Red lines

that would fade by tomorrow,

but the weight—

that weight stays. It lives in how

you stand, how you move,

how your body learns to curve

around the things you have to hold.

He made it to the top of the stairs.

He didn't look back.

Just kept going, small and bent,

carrying everything he owns.