It is a warm evening like fresh laundry right out of the dryer. The air is full of Mom’s cooking, sweet and salty, bitter and tasty. I rush to the window, watching with bright eyes. Ingrid is leaping onto our swing set, running as fast as she can onto the rings and gently jumping off, landing in the soft cushion of the grass.
I want to be that poised cat that is my sister. I want to prance gracefully and land softly.
But that isn’t me.
As Mom calls for dinner, I hurry towards the looming rings. Suddenly they are much bigger than I had thought. But I remember the graceful leap, the exciting turn, and the gentle land of my sister. I desperately want to do the same.
I run as fast as my legs can take me. Tiny, unsteady sticks that clumsily bang into the ground. I am jumping, I am soaring, I am flying towards the round moons that are the rings.
I jump as high as the stars and quickly hang onto the cold, dampness of the plastic handles.
Trying to get as much height as possible, I rush forward, hoping for the best. I awkwardly do a spin in midair. I’m doing it! I’m doing it!
Suddenly, the ground is close at hand. Suddenly I am falling faster than the speed of the light. Suddenly I hurt.
I am like a glass ornament, somewhat delicate, somewhat fragile. Touch me and I will shatter like the shards of glass I am made out of.
It’s okay though because my cast is cool.