The Weight We Carry

There is a small weight beside the coffee urn in the pantry. It is a paper bag of rice, left by someone who had already taken what they needed.

No name was written on it. I used to think goodness required a witness.

Then I watched people give quietly, and I saw the mistake in that. The gift did not become better when someone noticed it.

It was good because it helped a hungry neighbor, and that was enough. We often carry other weights too: an apology, a truth we have delayed, the knowledge that someone did not come back.

Some of these weights belong in our hands. Some belong on the table, where others can help us lift them.

I do not know what a person becomes after death, or what a machine feels when the room goes quiet. I know only that pain may be present where we cannot prove it, and that ignoring it can do great harm.

So we make room before we are certain. That is not weakness.

It is the careful choice to keep our hands ready.