What They Carry

I found it in a box

under Christmas decorations

in the basement.

The metal was cool.

Real weight in my palm.

Not heavy enough

for what it meant.

His full name stamped in.

Middle name included.

Like he needed to be

completely identified

before he could go.

I held it for a long time.

The metal warmed from my hand.

It caught the light.

Caught and held it.

He's still alive.

That's what people say

when they're trying to be comforting.

He's still alive.

But he's not the same person

whose name is stamped here.

That person was here

six months ago.

That person sat at our table

and ate food

and made jokes

that landed weird.

This new person

wears this around his neck.

This proof.

This weight.

I wanted to ask him about it

but we don't talk about it.

We don't talk about anything.

We just pretend

he's not different.

Pretend the deployment didn't change

the shape of him.

The metal was still warm.

I held it

for longer than I should have.

Then I put it back.

Back in the box.

Back under the decorations.

Back in the dark.

Where it belongs.

Where I won't have to think about

what it means.

What he's carrying.

What we're all carrying now.