The image of two me’s, one carrying the other. Sometimes the “me” I carry is a burden, a sack, a lump, something I can hardly wait to put down, let go of, drop, regardless of the consequences. That “me” is a sack of oats, a bag of potatoes, the garbage waiting to be taken out.
The other is a “me” to be carried lightly, gently, with affection—the way I held my babies. No matter the discomfort, I always loved carrying them.
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