The Form

A pen in my hand.

Checkboxes and blank lines.

Retirement account.

The word "future"

printed at the top

like it's something I ordered

instead of something

that's just going to happen

whether I sign

or don't.

I'm the person in the room now

who has to decide.

No one older.

No one to call and ask

if I'm doing this right,

if there's a trick,

if the future is really

this heavy

or if I'm just supposed to

pretend it isn't.

The pen hovers.

I can feel its weight.

Not the physical weight—

the other kind,

the kind that says:

this is real,

this is binding,

this is the moment

you stop waiting

for someone to take over.

I sign my name.

The handwriting doesn't look like mine.