I know I should expect it by now, but it continues creeping up on me. It feels so heavy, just laying here. I hit the bottom already, didn't I? But they don't tell you that rocks keep coming down after you. They pile up on you, sticking to your skin, and with each climb add to the weight. Must I bear all this? God, if only to be resting against the ground for a moment. To hit the bottom and be allowed a minute of peace against the rock, to lay my back against the wall, to lean on something, anything. Nowhere to go but up, they say. But I'm so small, and so tired. I close my eyes, and behind them I see the bone of my hands. The flesh worn away from clawing and clinging against the walls for so long, the blood absent, not reaching past the splits in my arms.
Was it always this way? Did my mother bear me while clinging to the walls? Did she let herself fall, empty her hands so that I could be placed in them?
I like to think she looked in my eyes and saw her own. I like to think it wasn't selfish, to want a piece of her to have the chance to climb closer to the sun.
