When It Stopped

He carried her out of the bar like she was still his,

like her arm around his neck meant permission,

like the weight of her falling into him

was a weight he'd been training for.

I was seven the last time someone did that.

My dad lifted me from the car to bed.

I was already awake—I remember pretending to sleep

because I wanted to stay that way, wanted to be carried

by someone who believed I needed it,

who didn't ask questions about whether I was getting too old.

But when was the last time?

I can't mark it.

I can't say: this was the final lift,

this was the last time I'd ever be held

like I was something someone else was responsible for.

Now I'm the one who stands.

Now I'm the one who walks.

Now when I fall, I'm supposed to catch myself.

The daughter's shoe was half off.

Her head tilted back.

She looked peaceful in the carrying,

like she'd been waiting

to be put down that gently.

I watched them leave the bar.

I watched until they were gone.

Then I turned back to my drink

and tried to remember if seven was the end

or if there was something after,

something I should have been paying attention to.