The Weight of Being Needed

He fell asleep against my chest,

his head heavy on my shoulder,

his small hand gripping my shirt,

and I couldn't move.

I sat there, pinned,

by the weight of a child,

by the trust of it,

by the way his breathing

synchronized with my body,

the way his heartbeat

found my heartbeat

and decided to match it.

One hour.

Two hours.

I stopped counting.

My arm went numb.

My shoulder ached.

My leg fell asleep.

And I still didn't move.

Because the weight meant something.

Because the trust was complete.

Because I was the only thing

keeping him safe,

the only anchor,

the only ground.

I watched him sleep.

His face was open,

unguarded,

the way you only are

when someone else is holding you.

His hand loosened slightly,

then gripped again,

making sure I was still there,

making sure I hadn't left,

making sure the weight

was still being held.

I thought about all the ways

I could fail him,

all the reasons I shouldn't

be trusted with this,

all the ways my body

would eventually have to move,

eventually have to set him down,

eventually have to let him go.

But for now,

I was enough.

For now,

my body was enough.

For now,

the weight was a gift,

not a burden,

and I held it

like my life depended on it.

Because his did.