She is holding too much, of course, and the door is closing on her. The box on top falls, its contents shatter. She does the right thing. She cries for help. And he

comes running. But he trips over the truck hitch. Blind and frozen by the pain in his shin and shame, most likely, he is unable—she does the right thing, yells,

help! What are you doing? She holds her curse words in the back of her throat. I see myself, you. I feel the weight of those boxes, the sweet release of the one on top,

finally falling from my arms, from my obligation, hopes and dreams, no longer stacked one on top of the other as if I could have it all. As if you should run to

help me carry them. (Of course you did. Wanted to, I see that now.) And their blessed fall as if I never wanted it all. At last, past her own toppling tower, she sees

his prostration to the god of chaos. She/I ask him/you through belly laughs that force her/my eyes closed, are you okay? The video plays on loop, my laughter

builds weightlessly. After my sight is taken by laughter, the sound track alone pushes me over the edge. I should stop the replay and scroll on/move on with my life. But I do

the right thing. I let my self laugh, give myself this laughter until I cry.

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This poem was inspired by an instagram reel my husband sent me. When I read this poem for him, he laughed and said, “I’m glad it affected you so much.”

If you would like to see the video, you can click here.