My mom entered my childhood bedroom on Saturday morning as she often does: before 8am, and with an announcement.
Running forward, jumping in, attacking head on, knocking over lampshades and stepping in potholes, moving with the clunky conviction of an oversized ship that has set its course without looking at the map. Moving, moving, onto what’s next, towards somewhere, a shoulder smacking against the wall, a trap door opening underfoot. We are clumsy and the floor is gone and there is pain. But we lean on each other. Grief has stolen the floor, but we lean on each other. Your elbow here, my arm there, and if we all stand in a circle we will hold each other up. When you are heavy, I will hold you. When I am heavy, I will give you my body to hold. When we are both heavy, let us lay side by side with heads on shoulders until the weight lifts, even just for a second. We’ll keep searching in the dark, together.