Hurt

Sitting. Just sitting.

Sitting and waiting.

For...something.

It hurts to breathe.

Shallow. Gasping. Gulping at the air.

Trying to make sense of the enigma.

She. And me.

Suspended

A small jolt,

the dropping of the stomach,

eyes closed at the apex of the swing set.

Suspended,

beyond all probability,

between white mountains and white sky.

Leaving below all that is known

and stretching upward

to things not meant to be fathomed.

Dangling,

somewhat perilously,

between the lives known and loved

and the angels that watch in awe.

This is flight.

Twelve

Happy Birthday, Caleb!