You Are Not Meant to Hold It All

I hold you
in the palm of my hand,
the weight of you,
of time—
your burdens
from the mountain you once lived on
and the smaller hills you climb every day.

In the distance,
just beyond the gate,
is that small boy you once were,
soft curls of blond,
hope like a new leaf
tucked behind your ear.

In an old photograph,
I see the younger you,
eager to please and
happy to play card games.
Allow yourself to imagine again.
See what it feels like
to not know what’s around the corner
and not feel the need to catch things,
make things tidy.
You are not meant to carry so much
in that cloth bag of worries.
You are not meant to hold it all.