Things That Weigh More Than They Should

In December the rain came in sideways off the ridge, and I unpacked everything onto the floor of the tent to see what could be left behind. It is an old habit of people who walk. You lay it all out, you weigh it, and you ask of each thing: is this worth carrying any further down?

I had a small spring balance for rock samples. I weighed what I could. Then, because there was no one to see, I ruled a second column beside the first — what each thing weighed when I tried to pick it up.

The field book, half empty 210 g a door I keep not opening It grows heavier on the days nothing is written in it.
A letter from the valley mouth, unopened 12 g a stone the size of a fist Nothing in it can be unkind. That is what makes it heavy.
The word “fine” 0 g a wet coat in summer
Lighting the stove on a cold morning 380 g a bridge that has to be rebuilt every day
A kindness from someone in town 0 g a wave Kindness is heaviest when you believe you cannot pay it back.
The theodolite, out of its case 4.2 kg a theodolite It weighed exactly what it weighs. I was grateful to it.
My own name, said aloud once, to see if it still worked 0 g a feather, finally The only thing on the list that weighed what it should.

I did not leave anything behind. That was not the point, it turned out. The point was the second column: to have it written down somewhere outside of me, in pencil, so that it was a measurement and not a confession.

There is no arguing with that column. I tried, the first week. It is only a letter, only a word, only a match. The column did not change. What changed it, later, was smaller loads. I opened the letter but read only the first line. I lit the stove and allowed myself not to cook. Half a load is still a load carried.

The rain went on into the night. I put everything back in the pack in a different order — the light things at the top, where I could reach them.