She’s not heavy
she’s my sister
and I would carry her across distant lands, over the burning sands
for one chance in her life
to enjoy a cool drink, a gentle breeze
under the solitary palm tree
that’s been pushed so far back now into her reverie
that she can’t remember
the last time she had it easy
the last time
life didn’t have her against the ropes
wielding deathly body blows-
an all out attack against her spirit, trying to hinder it,
to vanquish her hopes and who she fashions herself to be.
She’s been injured, badly and
the blood flow seems never ending
but she won’t throw in the towel.
Daily, I see her bob and weave
trying to cleave to a life
that she calls her own
but it isn’t-
it’s theirs, it’s ours, it’s mine
and so, I’ll carry her
and hold her seemingly futile, but relentless
feeble dreams in my hands.
They’ve grown weary, and why wouldn’t they?
But I’ll keep them
hold them close to my heart
skin to skin
wash them with new morning kisses and prayers of peace
sing songs of grace
and God’s enduring mercy into her ear
keep her
hold her head while she sleeps in my lap
catch each tear that clouds her eyes
collect them, lock them away
in a treasure chest
because for every one He is sure to repay.
She’s not heavy
she’s my sister
and I will carry her until her burden is light
and her feet are free
to dance in the morning sun-
not because of friendship, or debt, or love
but simply because
she has already done the same for me.
