Someone will carry you one night. You’ll fall asleep somewhere you shouldn’t have—a couch, a porch, a car seat, the floor—and someone will carry you to bed. You won’t be drunk, you won’t be sick, you’ll simply be too damned tired to move. C’mon, you, let’s get you to bed. Some archangelic voice, but your eyes are too heavy to open and identify it. Hmmmmm, nuh-uh, you’ll groan.
What comes next is the sensation of being lifted, of ambulation without effort. Cradled in the arms of someone like when you were a kid returning from a long trip, of a parent taking you inside. You’ll be tucked in, you’ll welcome the coolness of the dark, and you’ll wake only dimly aware of how you got to bed in the first place.
Or maybe it won’t happen like that. Maybe on a day you wish would just end already, someone will give the scantiest word, the slightest gesture, and in so doing give you a slight glimmer of hope. For you, for the human race, for whatever.
But someone will carry you.
