At first, small feet were followed with small eyes. Small feet then followed young eyes until both were fairly independent of each other.
Beneath me, a leather strap worn smooth by many bodies. I tipped my head. I tipped my torso. Finally it all tipped and a slight motion forward encouraged a stronger motion backward. I flew without thought of falling, those chains so grand in my hands.
I wore modesty shorts under all my skirts. Metal was so cold at 7 a.m. as I slid across the bar, positioned it in the crook of my knees and my hands let go. I stayed upside down, swinging naturally until my pulse began to pound behind my eyes. Dismount was a grace I won and then forgot to forget.
Two solid steel circles taunted me, even on my tiptoes. When finally I caught one, I could swing aside to catch the other. No one would bothered to tell me how many muscles, how much strength it took to slowly raise and angle the body for a forward or backward climb to a headstand position.
I was seven, when I became an unescorted airplane passenger for the first time. With only the stewardesses to watch over me, I watched under me. I had the first first-class seat and shared the row with no one.Three hours I remained riveted to the view out the portal window.
See, my grandpa and my father both worked in aerospace in separate capacities. This view was me sharing both their laps at the same time and hearing them talk over one another to tell me about what their jobs meant to all the other passengers.
Much of my life has been letting go. We moved often. People who knew me were completely unfamiliar, then disappeared again. Job. Marriage. Moving. Dovorce. New job. Losing our father, my mother-in-law to cancers. Three minute countdown to my ultimate release—only to grasp with resentment at the restless, unknown future.
©2014 Sandra R. Davidson