The girls carried memory. Whitewashed memory floated between their fingers, hovered like a will-o-the-wisp under their tongues, and fluttered between their eardrums. The recollections, weighing a mere neurotransmitter (heavy enough to kill a man, light enough to fly higher than an empty dream), coalesced into something like fog and something like ballast. Because they were so dense, memories spread over each arm equally, balancing the past like a scale, keeping the rhythm of the body on beat. Because the girls were bored of the beat, improvisation occurred. They carried broken hoop earrings (0.2 oz) from parties and ill-judged pranks. They carried snapshots of snapshots caught on an Instagram post (0.0000001 oz) and a mason jar filled with cheesy wishes (8 oz). They carried Japanese erasers from fourth grade (2 oz) and Valentine’s Day cards from that boy they forgot the name of but thought was so cute (3 oz). If they were very unlucky, they carried regret and grief, which were other sorts of ballast.

I carried cardboard boxes (6 oz) bent and shredded at the corners by well-meaning Sharpies. I carried conch shells from flea markets (16 oz) and cowbells from the Alps (4 oz), neatly folded Harry Potter posters (10 oz), and stacks and stacks of long-dead pointe shoes (64 oz). Because the shells (16 oz) and posters (10 oz) and cowbells (4 oz) and pointe shoes (64 oz) and letters (3.2 oz) and cards (9.3 oz) and paperbacks (128 oz) and origami stars (3 oz) and teapots (16 oz) and theater programs (4.2 oz) and snow globes (16 oz) were so heavy, the flimsy cardboard boxes ripped. Because they ripped, the snow globes fell to the floor and shattered. Because they shattered, they bled antifreeze, and I had an excuse for the liquid seeping from beneath my eyelids. The liquid claimed it came from memory, but I knew memory did not feel like ballast.

Memory breathed distance and nostalgia and wistful smiles. This was heavy emptiness, loss I carried in the lining of my stomach. They called it loneliness. It tumbled over and over like a washing machine, the same memories echoing. A blue-gray beach with stones the size of marbled chicken eggs. A swing set looping at the county fair and the scent of wine-country style Twinkies. Hot snot clogging my nose after one bite of chicken curry too many.

I carried fear too: the fear of being a burden and the fear of failure. Its heaviness swirled with hope and ambition and adventure and wanderlust and regret and guilt and excitement like french fries dipped in vanilla In-N-Out milkshakes, strange and familiar, salty and sweet.

Brooke carried a ratty T-shirt three sizes too big and four sizes too ugly (7 oz). She carried a pile of unopened letters (3 oz) and a periwinkle Polaroid camera (16 oz) and a pair of running shoes (7.4 oz) and snarky comments and fierce loyalty and broken and repaired trust and an easygoing nature and a smile that twitched at the edges when she was trying not to laugh. She carried practicality and humor and fear of loss, and confusion and stubbornness and optimism about the future. It was her instinct, to carry. To grasp until the last second, like a race where the prize is a decade-old friendship.

Kayla carried a battered paperback with a title too long to fit on the cover (4.3 oz) and a silver ear cuff (0.2 oz) and a green strawberry (1 oz) and a pale cratered moon and a passion for all things offbeat and eyes full of wonder. She carried sympathy and determination, excitement and an inexhaustible list of restaurant recommendations. Because she carried her own weight, she ran forward faster: Newton’s law of inertia in action.

Grace carried sweaty black tank tops (8 oz) and exploding butterbeer (4 oz) and pink lipstick (0.5 oz) and a knack for giving weird nicknames. She carried a refusal to hear the word “no” and too many extracurriculars and a desire to keep giving when both her hands were empty.

All of these weights became ballasts, tying the girls’ feet to the floor so it was possible to snatch them before they drifted away like helium balloons. Before I drifted away, on a sea of moving-vans and fog.

We carried memory together, though it hurt our hands. We carried childhood and awkward middle school and freshman fear and cringe-worthy homecoming dances and fights and forgiveness and time, so much time. We carried everything that goes along with good-bye. But mostly, we carried each other: the best sort of ballast.