What Kids Carry

He came through the school doors with both straps on,

the bag already tipping him forward.

I watched from the parking lot. He looked gone

into the weight of it, walking toward

the car without seeing me yet. Got in.

Let the bag drop off his shoulders to the seat—

the sound of it landing: I don't know. Thin

thud, like something final. Complete.

He looked out the window. I pulled out.

Quiet the whole ride. The bag sat there

behind him, straps shaped like arms without

the arms. I kept checking. His hair

in the rearview. He's eight. He didn't say

the bag was heavy. He doesn't do that.

Doesn't mention things. All the way

home, nothing. He got out. And that

was it. The bag's still in the back seat.

I haven't moved it. The straps hold their shape.

I don't know what I'm keeping. The street

outside is dark now. I can't escape

the weight of him not saying it.