There are things I carry everywhere. Into every room. Every car ride. Every shower. Every conversation. Everywhere. I cannot put them down because if I do, I’ll cease to exist.
- The inexplicable grief that undulates between whispering and crying my daughter’s name.
- The anger I’ve held since I was small, sparked by childhood abuse and carried forward in the silence that followed.
- The fear of being too much and not enough.
- The softness I inherited from my daughter.
- The resilience I inherited from my oldest son.
- The compassion I inherited from my second son.
- The hope I inherited from my youngest son.
- The poorly timed sense of humor that sometimes lands and sometimes fizzles.
- My phone, my airpods, and a knitting trinket (a sewing needle or a stitch holder or a string tied to my lifeline).
And though they may be heavy at times, they are not burdens. They are my proof that I am still here. Some things are too loud to name. I carry them anyway.