What I Carry Poem by ashok jadhav

At first I searched for remedies—
time, prayer, reason, the promise of dawn.
I thought grief was a wound that would close
if I waited with enough patience.
But sorrow did not ask to be healed.
It asked only for a place to stay.
So I learned its weight, its quiet shape,
the way one learns to carry water without spilling.
Some days it rests lightly on my shoulder,
almost forgettable, almost kind.
Other days it bends my spine with memory,
reminding me what love once cost.
I no longer chase the cure I was promised.
I walk instead with what remains.
This is not defeat, but a different strength—
to live, still loving, with sorrow in my arms.