“Wheelbarrow” by Max Kruger-Dull

I didn’t know you fell out of the raft until you floated by. In that river muddy from monsoon season, you flailed for our hands. You yelped as you bobbed. Your life vest lifted above your head like a restraint, but you were never close to slipping out of it. The rapid had not been daunting: a riffle. It took only moments to pull you back into the raft.

After your swim, you sat on the raft, bereft. I wiped the muddy water from your brows. You took care of the rest of your face. Then you paddled weakly. You’d get none of the calluses you wanted with those half-hearted strokes. All your calluses still come from the gym. And from playing on the monkey bars with our kids.

That night our group camped close to the river. You and I laughed about your fall. But you couldn’t stop slumping and fading. “How many days until we’re home?” you asked. At home, we always cede to you. The walls are painted by you. The tantrums are stopped by you. Unlike me, you weren’t fazed by the landlord. When he tried to evict us for our beagle’s yapping, you baked him ginger cookies and researched soundproofing and soundproofed the apartment and researched beagles and trained our beagle not to yap and researched landlords and had our youngest tell him there’d be no more disturbances from our family. Yes, I’ve had dreams of you rolling me up a mountain in a wheelbarrow.

When the moon came out at camp, I could tell you needed to piss but there was that rule about only pissing in the river so I offered to escort you to the river but you chose to wait until morning. You made a fluffy nest in our tent and said, “Safety.” I loved that you asked me to sing to you.

In the morning, you paced the sand like you were trying to find stable ground. “I am in control,” I thought I heard you say. You did a meticulous job of packing up our tent.

And then you didn’t consult me. You asked the river guide to get you medevacked back to the hotel. He wouldn’t until you said you’d give him a big tip; that showed your ingenuity.

“I’m outta here,” you said to me.

“I’m not?” I asked.

The group went down the sand with buckets of muddy water so the helicopter could land without ruining the beach. I gathered your bags. You looked embarrassed by our effort.

Strapped into your helicopter seat, you waved at me through the window as if you were ashamed not to be holding a paddle.

I didn’t like being left behind. The trip had never been my idea.

Twelve days later, when my paddling ended and I got back from the river, you washed the mud from my clothes in the hotel bathtub. You took care of my sunburn and gave me a report on the kids; they didn’t miss us. You took me to one of the restaurants you’d explored while I was still being outdoorsy. We drank ice water, and you said, “Here’s to no more lukewarm.”

“Here’s to no more red ants,” I said. “Red ants became a problem after you left.”

Then I wanted to watch TV, and you wanted to plan our September and October. Then I wanted to sleep, and you wanted to prove yourself: at cards, at calmness. You asked me if I still trusted you.

“Back to normal,” you said.

“I’m still your wheelbarrow,” you said.

I still trust you. You still gush competence. But I don’t need that rainbow AM/PM pillbox you bought me last week. Relax, you. Remember: I only take one pill a day.