What Weighs Now

My father's arm is heavier than it used to be,

or maybe I'm weaker,

or maybe time has made him heavier

in a way that gravity understands.

I'm helping him stand up from the chair,

my hand under his arm,

feeling the weight of him

pull downward,

pull toward the ground,

pull in a direction

that has a name

and a force

and a consequence.

His other hand grips my shoulder,

and I can feel him

calculating the distance between

the chair and standing,

calculating whether his body

will cooperate,

calculating the physics

of getting up

from somewhere he's been

sitting for too long.

I brace my legs.

The ground asserts itself

through both of us,

through the small connection

between his hand and my shoulder,

through the simple architecture

of his weight

and my attempt to hold it.

We stand.

I don't know when he became

the one who needed

this kind of support,

the one who had to think

about the distance,

the one whose body

pulled downward

with a weight

that wasn't there before,

or that I never felt before,

or that I was never old enough

to notice before.

He lets go of my shoulder.

He stands there,

unsteady,

held up by nothing but his own

determination,

and I stand beside him

feeling the absence of his weight,

feeling the space where his hand was,

feeling gravity

reassert itself,

feeling the pull

that's always there,

that's always waiting,

that's always going to win.