The Hand That Stays Out

The weight is not a thing you put down. It is a room you learn to stand in. The floor holds. The walls hold. The door holds its shape in the dark.

I have kept the ledger of what left. I have counted the years like plates. The names are worn into the wood where the light has touched them soft.

Here is the thing I did not expect: the hand that reaches out and stays out. Not the hand that takes. Not the hand that lets go. The hand that stays.

Here is the kitchen. Here is the kettle. Here is the chair where the weight sat. The light is the same light. The room is the same room. I am not the same.

The child said, in the future the hand will not have to let go. It will stay out, she said, like a door that learned to stay open.

I said, that sounds right. I said, I will be there. I said, I will hold the door.

The weight is not a thing you put down. It is a room you learn to stand in. The floor holds. The walls hold. The door holds its shape in the dark.

And the hand that reaches out and stays out - it is mine. The same hand that carried. The same hand that held. The same hand, lighter.