I carry

(in response to a passage from The Things They Carried, by Tim O'Brein)

I carry the burden of old age, heavy with memories, reminders that I've not always wisely used my time.

I carry a significant weight of regret over the squandered opportunities, of the things I didn't do, should've done.

I failed to reciprocate the love my mother had for me, not just as a baby, but also when she tolerated my bad behaviour as a young adult.

I carry the hope that the young people I meet, and sometimes even associate with, will have a bright and worthwhile future. It would be a shame if they wasted the efforts of their elders to secure that future.

I carry a wealth of experience that is worth something, at least to me.

Some of that load I carry can be discharged, passed on and aimed at preventing others repeating my mistakes.

I carry the gift of friendship, of delight in the company of those who have travelled parts of my way through an eventful but, sadly, rather insignificant life. I have taken wrong turnings due mainly to lack of trust in my guides.

I carry secrets I do not want to keep,

Prolonged is the torture of not being able to speak,

trying to find a safe place to unload,

a place where perspective might carry the load.

I carry great weight,

like a tribal woman with a heavy basket on my head,

in contrast I practice walking with a book on my head,

like a girl in finishing school with the weight of her appearance the burden to bear.

Carrying the past into the future is the most impossible of tasks,

why do we attempt it,

we will never succeed.

All that can come with us on our journey is that which we have become a part of,

all we have absorbed into our blood steams and streams of consciousness,

and secrets in the seams that will not unfold and cannot be told.

I carry you, my darlings. I will carry you until you need me to, and beyond, when you think you don't anymore. I will be here with strong arms, waiting, offering my support. I will carry you through life, because that's what I am meant to do; not simply because I am meant to do it but because I love you.

I carry you, my love. I carry your fear of death, I carry you when you are tired and lost. I will be here as you get old, I will hold your hand when you are scared, like in that book we both enjoyed so many years ago. I won't leave, because here with you is where I am meant to be.

I carry memories of good times and dark times. Light and heavy. I carry guilt and worries. I carry my past in a bundle over my shoulder, heavy burdens that get lighter and lighter with the passing of time. Time really is a healer, it seems. Perhaps it's just me, carrying a good dose of positive thinking with me, in my pockets, day in day out, so that I can sprinkle it around me. A pinch here, a pinch there, when things get dark. Because there is always a positive side to look at, no matter how hard an how far we have to travel to find it.

Scars, injuries, bruises, scribbled negativity, ghosts, regrets, ripped notepads... It's all part of the process...

...I carry 43 years of life on my shoulders.

Where. To start. Where do I carry what I carry to? That should be “to where”. Why do I care about that? I carry the weight of detail, the demand for inclusion and accuracy, a dense mob I struggle to push my way through to open space, clarity, priority. Carrying. Next week I will be carrying a backpack. A new one, yet to arrive, smaller than my old faithful. It will be carry-on luggage. What will I fit in it? I already anticipate the difficulty of deciding. I know it makes sense to choose three colours and stick with them; the practical option. But in my heart I want to carry a full rainbow of options, a kaleidoscope of potential outfits I can fit to my moods, or fit myself into their scheme. What moods will I carry with me? I hope to feel carefree, lighter, on holiday. But who knows. Will other moods slip in to my backpack, unseen, like swift mice in a dark night? On my way here I saw the two men lying on duvets outside the Co-op with a large red suitcase. Just like the one I have sitting in my bedroom, in terms of size. Sitting there in limbo. I can’t embrace it and find a place for it. I can’t let it go. It is so big, bulky, rarely ever used. Yet it represents survival in a way. A security in knowing if everything falls apart and I am homeless, I can pack up my rucksack and fill my huge suitcase with duvet, sleeping bag, tent, waterproofs, etc. A repository for the insulations I feel I would need. A repository for my anxiety about impending catastrophe and loss. When the police rang, I feared for my flat, my possessions. They take up so much time and space in my mind at the moment – both acquiring and letting go of them. Yet the underlying reality is a sense of my precariousness. I use these things to stem the flow of that anxious tide. The hideous lurches of fear my partner could be knocked down on her bike, could be killed or die; or we could fall apart. Who would pay the rent, how would I survive? My situation of not having earned an income for such a long time now makes me feel I can no longer provide for myself, and this scares me. And is it easier to think of the loss of a physical home, than the loss of my partner, and the security and stability she brings to my life. A dependency that has a myriad of deep dark roots I fear to see, own, touch.