The heavy coffin that was ours to carry.

I woke up this morning thinking about
carrying your coffin.
There was a finality to the moment
we watched our parents close it.
My final words to you
had come out in a slightly panicked cry,
“Goodbye, my Noah Boa. Goodbye, my Noah Boa,”
as I clumsily brushed my hands across your chest
and kissed the top of your head one last time.

Your coffin was so heavy, Noah.
I don’t think it was because
it was made out of an element resistant
stainless steel
or that you were a full grown man.
I think it was because
my arms were ill-prepared
to carry it
and my muscles,
atrophied by sorrow,
had trouble lifting even myself.
As soon as I set my hands
on the metal bars,
lined up beside our brothers and sisters,
my heart crumbled.
Sobs burst out from the depth of me
as we lifted you,
pulsating through my body with each painful step.
We carried you to the hearse
which sat open before us
ready to bring your body to your final resting place.
Weeping,
our family’s cries accompanied you.
Together we bore the weight,
knowing we should never
have had to carry another coffin,
knowing we could never
have carried it alone.