The Weight You Carry

Unable to ignore the heaviness of humidity any longer, you slowly bend down to carefully place the heavy box on the little square landing in front of you. Hovering over the package draped with a lemon-coloured, fleece blanket, you fold into a hunched squat. You place your elbows on your knees and rest your chin on your hands; fingertips just barely brushing your lashes as you blink, covering the dark shadows under your tired, heavy eyes and leaving only the bright blue iris and pale skin visible that hasn’t yet started to wrinkle. With one big exhale, you smooth your hands up to your scalp and bring them back around the sides of your face, before pushing up to stand. The closeness causes a prickle of heat drawn droplets to form on the back of your neck and fine hairs stick at the nape. Delicately combing the blonde strands with your teal tinted nails, you efficiently pull your hair into a loose bun with a pink tie from your wrist.

“Hey sweetheart, I’ve got that for you” asserts a deep voice from behind you, as a muscular hand briefly but intrusively imprints your green, daisy-print vest top to the small of your back. He walks past you and, without even looking back, picks up the little heavy box and strolls ahead.

“No that’s okay, I was just tying my hair up, I’ve got it”, you say politely whilst following after the shirt-and-jeans-wearing, broad shouldered man that marches ahead; waving your hand aimlessly in the air as if to perpetuate you forward or slow him down.

“Oh it’s no stress. A pretty girl like you doesn’t need to be carrying this weight around” he insists, without missing a beat in his pace.

“Please stop, slow down.” You say, still trying to be polite but beginning to grow in agitation at the overbearing gentlemanliness. The invisible wraith of his scent hinders you further. There is a familiarity in his aftershave: sandalwood and bergamot. This tainted smell is the reason you now hold your breath whenever you sit near someone drinking earl grey tea like a child avoiding the suspicious smoke of a cigarette. Over-zealously applied and lingering in the space that grows between you; its resonance stings your eyes. He blurs.

“Miles ahead of you sweetheart. Which way am I going? Straight ahead?”

“Hey stop! Put that box down. I told you I’ve got it!” you call out as a broth of frustration and anger begins bubbling under your skin in the seemingly increasing heat.

“Wow, little firecracker you are, aren’t you? You’ve got some sass to be shouting at me like that.” He replies sarcastically with a condescending smirk, and though no louder than yours, his voice seems to carry more weight.

“I don’t need you to just come and grab my stuff without even asking. I told you I can carry it myself.”

“Fine” he says, turning back around precariously before dropping the box on the floor, just high enough above the ground to make a statement but not so high that it should have broken anything. His subtle hint of cautiousness, even if subconscious on his part, makes you feel a little guilty for disputing him. Its more than you are used to.

“Its because of women like you, thinking you need to be so independent, who cause all of this trouble for no reason. Just take a bit of help when you need it”, he says.

“Oh, piss off” you snap bluntly, exhausted to put any actual effort into continuing the argument. “I don’t need it and I don’t need you to tell me I do. I don’t even know why I am having this conversation - you don’t even know me”. Your hands are on your hips now and you widen your stance, occupying more of the space.

But still you stand below his glare.

He takes one step down, closer to you.

“Well don’t expect any help the next time I see you” he threatens.

“Fine” you say with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. One short, confident syllable.

Your movements, similarly monosyllabic, are very much to the point. You bend down sharply, grab the box firmly from the landing a couple of steps above you and snap back up. Raising your chin to meet the familiar strangers’ gaze you jolt your head to flick your hair away from your neck.

Continuing to climb, you miss a step and trip. Just stopping yourself shy of bumping into the man’s chest he watches and lets out a scathing: “Ha!”

But then you pass him.

You turn your back to him as your walk up the last flight of stairs. Dogged determination to prove your independence to both of you drives you up the outdated, crimson carpeted steps. A red carpet to showcase your resilience under the artificial apricot-tinctured lighting of the ceiling lamps.

You balance the bulky box on your jutting hip whilst reaching into the back-pocket of your blue-wash denim shorts for a key, a whimsical heart stitched on the pocket. Reaching through the heart, for the key to your future, without a ring. Before the winking metal is welcomed by the lock, the box begins to slip so you cradle it with your other hand and hoist it back into position. You wrestle eagerly with the stubborn little key to win it into place. With a generous wiggle in the lock and a firm nudge with your empty hip, the paint-peeling door swings open.

One pink, frilly crib stands proud and alone in the centre of the flat.

Your crib.

Your flat.

You feel a rush of calm as you walk purposefully towards the crib with the box still in your hands. Unfurnished and neglected you envision the extent of the possibility the space could have with some time and care: the kitchen where new smells of freshly bakes goods will replace old harrow, and the living area where you will sit and read or socialise with your new-found friends.

You place the box down for the last time today, just next to the crib. Despite the lack of cool airflow in the room, the openness of the space lifts the heat from your skin and from under it. Leaning over you beam over your precious responsibility. You lift-up the baby high into the air by yourself. You let her soar for a short second just above your grasp before landing safely in your assured grip, supported in the green and daisy-print of your embrace. You carry her with ease and grace…completely by yourself.

This is the weight you carry.

This is your strength.