The weight she carried
Long before the first light touched the horizon, I was already tightening my laces, ready for whatever came next. The sound of my son’s soft breathing down the hall reminded me why I kept going. I slipped quietly into my uniform, careful not to wake anyone. Not my sweet boy, not my mother, not my stepfather, not even the man who still occupied the other side of our bed, though his heart had long since moved out. I moved through the house like a ghost, the floorboards knowing better than to creek beneath my steps. In the kitchen, the coffee pot gurgled to life, a small, steady promise of warmth. I stood by the sink, watching the sky shift from black to gray through the slats of the blinds. This was the only time the silence didn’t feel heavy. Soon, the day would ask more of me than I wanted to give. But for now, in these few unclaimed minutes, I let myself rot into honesty. My mom’s cough echoed through the house, ragged and uneven. So I padded across the house following the sounds. I set down my cup of coffee and adjusted the hand-sewn quilt her mother had made, wrapping it around my mom’s thin shoulders. My mom’s eyes, weary but warm, her face, soft but with deep smile lines from a life well lived, met mine. “You’re doing too much,” my mom whispered. I smiled, though the ache behind my ribs deepened. “I’ll be fine, Mom. Just rest.”
Fine. That word was a costume I wore daily, along with my postal uniform and the forced smiles I gave strangers while dropping envelopes into their mailboxes. It hung on me like a ill-fitting coat, too tight in the shoulders, too thin for the weather. On my route, I carried more than letters. I carried the silence of a husband who no longer looked me in the eyes during dinner. The unspoken words between us was no longer sharp with anger; it had gone soft, like mildew, settling into everything we used to share. I carried the slow, relentless fading of my mother, the woman who once ran the tightest crew as Chief of Security, now to weak to sit up on her own. I still saw her in her crisp sky blue uniform and steel toed boots, barking orders without raising her voice. She kept men twice her size in line with just a glance. Now, my mom’s strength lived in memories and whispered warnings not to do to much. And I carry the laughter of my son, bright and boundless. He still believed in love, in wishes made on birthday candles, in good people and better days. He was the reason I still smiled when my back ached and my heart felt like glass. He was the reason I woke up before dawn to pack lunches and write little notes on napkins. I glanced at my mom again, who had closed her eyes. Her breathing was shallow but steady now. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Outside, the morning waited for me, the familiar clatter of my mail cart, the weight of my trays, the same streets I delivered to every day. But for now, I stayed in the soft stillness of the room, watching the shadows on the walls move, letting the quiet wrap around me like the quilt around my mother. There was always more to carry. However, simply existing will have to do for now.
