Personal Narrative: The Day I Carry

What I carry varies with the fluidity of my emotional state. When the day can be called good, I carry friends’ hands, a good book, old photographs, two Werther’s caramels in my mouth, and a smile. When the day can be called marvelous, I carry old memories, David Bowie’s ‘Greatest Hits’ album, a cup of steaming tea, two Werther’s caramels in my mouth, another one in my pocket, and multiplying laughter. In those moments, I am the Hindu god Krishna, with the universe in my mouth. I also carry floss around on those days, when the stars get stuck in my teeth and my smile is too bright. Other days are dragged out and require a completely different layout of objects. In late May, classes play a game of Zeno’s paradox with the material and upcoming finals. To deal with the extra load placed on me, I carry textbooks in my backpack, extra pens in each notebook, a pair of sunglasses for studying outdoors, the silence of a locked room, the bubble of noise in a coffeeshop, nibbled fingernails, and pills forgotten to be swallowed. The memories of a happy yesterday start to slip in my hands, like a bar of soap between wet fingers. One by one, I forget what it means to breathe, I forget the power of smile. I become a hubble of nerves and the days seem endless. If I pause for a moment during those days, I swear I

Then, it is a step, awkward like a plump toddler’s first soft thump on this Earth. These steps collect into a series, beating faster and faster to the rhythm of my own heart. Someone might as well call it a geometric sequence and calculate how far I have come because I’m running. Mom, I am finally running. I do not know where I am running to, but I know that the journey has been worth it. I am about to meet the other end, the person who has felt my up’s and my down’s through the miniscule movements they have felt on their