My Cardboard Balcony

You Are So Light by Belinda Roddie You are so light and easy to carry as I haul you up seven flights of stairs. It's as if you're two armfuls' worth of breeze, or brittle sunlight caught between the hairs on my head. I know you've fallen asleep against my chest, your nose whistling, your breath coming out in short, harsh bursts, and I keep time of your pulse so that you don't risk death as you bounce against me. I lay you down on the couch. Suddenly, your fingers latch onto my shirt. I feel my own heart pound as you look up, awake, but still detached from the world around you. You are so light, but your grip's so heavy to me tonight.

How many times did I step outside, I wondered, into that harsh, cold air, the coils of frost like chainmail across my caved in torso, and see that same wolf leering at me from behind the dying redwood tree? She did not come close to me - no, she did not see me as prey or enemy. But she always looked at me. Each morning, as I went out to collect wood or go to the shed, she was there, yellow eyes blazing even against sheets of falling snow, her jaw set as if she were chewing something she could not fully break down.