I took my text books out of my backpack before I left campus. No real reason to keep them with me, no reason to leave them, but for some reason, I didn't want to carry the extra weight.
As I slip the strap of the empty bag over my shoulder, I wonder fleetingly if the unaccustomed lightness won't be enough to keep me on the surface, if lift until only my toes touch the ground and then nothing, if I'll float into the sky until I'm just a speck, and then nothing.
But as I start to walk, I realize I needn't have worried. I'm heavy enough on my own. Each step sinks deep, down, through the snow, through the earth, sinking to the core. I'm weighed down still, though I can't tell why.
