then, just before I fall,
your hand slipping away from mine,
unwinding into wisps of foggy grey
that dissipates into smoke, then vapor, then nothing,
I catch myself upon a stone,
my hand breaking open, palm
blushing red as I remember
that as a child I kicked the dirt, finding
smooth, round stones beneath
and rub them in my hands, my fingers feeling
along the cool curve of the rock, turning
it over and over in my hands, dirt collecting
on my palms like outer skin because
back then, I was young enough to feel the lightness
in my feet, the rush right before jumping,
the ascension into the air, where I hung, tingling
with excitement, legs weak with jitters but heart pulsing
and pounding as I pressed myself
forward, the stone held tightly in one hand —
as long as I held it gently, this magic rock
would keep me high in the clouds,
where the air was crisp and
the sky broke open wide, bright and delicious
like freshly picked blackberries
right from the vine,
purple staining my fingers, tracing
my fingerprints on the pad of each finger,
dark and wet and sweet,
these purple whorls are me,
seeds still stuck in my teeth, the taste —
the burst —
of tangy sour, underripe with pale red streaks,
not yet ready, but
who can fly who feels ready to jump
and
who reaches out her hand to hold another’s
if she is sure he will hold her too?
Photo by Lizzie George on Unsplash
Rachel Sandell 