When I Put My Bags Down

There is a woman who can carry impossible things. She signs the papers. Makes the decisions. Faces what most people turn away from. She learns how to stand even when standing is the last thing she wants to do. She cries for creatures that never learned our language. For strangers she'll never meet. For forests. For butterflies. For all the quiet lives the world seems too busy to notice. Most people never know that about her. They meet the capable woman. The composed one. The one who figures it out. They never see that somewhere beneath all that strength... Is someone whose heart still breaks over things that cannot thank her for caring. Every morning, I become who the day asks for. The woman who can carry. Who can steady trembling hands. Who can swallow her own questions. Who can bear witness And still keep walking... And I do. It isn't difficult anymore. Perhaps that's the part that frightens me. Strength... I've learned changes people quietly. At first you believe you're carrying it. Then... so quietly you hardly notice, it begins carrying you. People start placing things into your hands. A little grief. A little responsibility. Someone else's impossible day. And because your arms have learned how to make room, They rarely ask whether you wanted to. Until one evening you pause at your own front door .... And you cannot remember the last time you arrived without bringing the world in with you.... ...Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I walked through that door without needing to be made of iron. ...If I could leave my boots beside the wall. My keys in the bowl. The weight somewhere I couldn't immediately reach. I don't think I've ever wanted to be less capable... Only less necessary. To belong for a little while, To an evening that asks nothing of me... Except that I arrive.