Straps

He was standing at the bus stop at 3 PM

with a backpack that looked like it weighed

more than he did.

The straps had cut grooves into his shoulders.

I could see the indent in his shirt

where the weight had been sitting all day.

His posture was destroyed—

hunched, listing to one side,

the way you stand when you're carrying

something that's slowly crushing you.

He kept shifting his weight.

From one foot to the other.

Back and forth.

The bus wasn't coming.

I remembered this.

Not this specific bus stop,

not this specific kid,

but the feeling—

that moment at 2:45 PM

when you realize you still have

the whole thing strapped to you,

and there's still an hour

before you can put it down.

His shoulders were narrow.

The straps were digging in.

The bus wasn't coming.

He pulled out his phone.

Checked the time.

The backpack shifted on his back.

He flinched.

The bus still wasn't coming.

He kept standing there,

hunched under the weight,

waiting for it to arrive,

waiting for home,

waiting for the moment

when he could finally

take it off.