The Weight

My niece asked me to carry her

up the stairs.

She's five.

She's light enough

that I don't even think about it—

I just lift her

the way you lift

something you love

without calculating cost.

Her arms around my neck.

Her weight against my chest.

Halfway up, something breaks.

I remember

being this light,

being this trusting,

being this small

and knowing

without doubt

that the person carrying me

would never

put me down

until I asked.

I can't remember

the last time

that was true.

My niece is talking.

Telling me about her day,

about the thing she built,

about the friend

who wouldn't share.

Her breath is warm on my neck.

I'm still climbing.

At the top,

I put her down.

The moment is over.

She runs to her room.

I stand in the hallway

and I can still feel

the weight of her,

the trust,

the specific gravity

of being needed,

of being the one

who carries.

When did I stop being

the one who is carried?

When did I decide

that being held

was something

only for children?

My arms feel empty.

More empty than they should.

My niece is coloring,

doing the small things

five-year-olds do

when they're not being held.

I'm here in the hallway,

remembering

a version of me

that someone held like that,

that someone knew

how to hold

the way I just held her.

I was so light then.

I remember that.

I was so light.

Now I'm not,

and there's no one here

who knows

how to hold

something this heavy.