My Grandpa carried me out the car when I was sick

My Grandpa Carried Me Out the Car When I Was Sick

By: Robert Jordan

I think about that day sometimes,
how I was so small in his arms,
like the world was too much for me to carry.
The sun was high,
too bright for how heavy everything felt.
I was sick, body weak,
but him, he opened that door,
reached in, pulled me out,
and there was no hesitation,
no second thought,
like it was nothing, like he was born to do it.
And I, I just let him.

I think about that now,
when I’m walking this road,
when I feel too heavy for my own skin.
I wish someone would open the door,
reach in, and pull me out.
But there’s no one.
No arms strong enough,
no steady hand to guide me through the mess I’ve made.
It’s just me,
and I’m failing.

I show up late to school,
and I hate that the only thing people remember about me is the time I missed.
I wish that wasn’t all they saw.
I wish they saw the part of me
still trying to figure out life,
still trying to piece myself back together.
I’m still processing,
still breaking,
still reaching for something
I can’t even name.
I can’t even tell you what’s wrong,
I just know it’s there,
sitting heavy in my chest.

I know my dad’s watching,
hoping I’ll pull it together,
hoping I’ll get it right this time.
And maybe he’s right.
Maybe I should.
But I’m still caught between being the son he wants,
and the version of myself that’s still lost.
I’m still figuring this out.

Summer left,
and with it, my clarity,
my hope,
my belief that things could be different.
Now I’m here,
stuck in the wreckage,
trying to rebuild with hands too shaky to hold the pieces.
Trying to find the rhythm in the chaos,
but it feels like every step I take
pushes me further away from what I thought I’d be.

And it’s not just regret.
It’s not just the failure I see when I look in the mirror,
it’s the weight of not knowing if I’ll ever get it right.
It’s the fear of disappointing them,
of never being the person they hope for.
And I think about Grandpa,
how he carried me without a second thought,
how he made it look so easy,
like there was nothing in the world
that could stop him from helping me.

But now,
now it’s just me.
I don’t have anyone to pull me out,
to carry me when my legs give out.
And I’m scared,
scared that I won’t be enough,
scared that I’ll keep falling,
and no one will be there to catch me.

But still, I keep moving.
Not because I’m strong,
but because stopping means I’ve given up,
and I’m scared of what that would mean.
I keep walking,
even when it feels like I’m dragging the world behind me.
Even when my chest is heavy,
and the weight of everything presses on me like it’s all my fault.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be enough.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get this right.
But I think about Grandpa,
how he carried me when I couldn’t even stand,
and I try to believe that there’s a strength in me,
a strength I haven’t found yet.
A strength Grandpa saw when he pulled me from that car,
and a strength my dad still believes in,
even when I can’t see it myself.

Because if Grandpa could carry me,
and if Dad still expects me to rise,
then maybe…
I can carry myself, even when I’m on the verge of falling off that cliff.