The Person Who Might Go Somewhere
That day when my father saw me levitate, he was furious.
He said: “Sir, how is this?”
And I said, “Sir, I do not know, I do not know, I do not know.”
I looked in those eyes glaring up at me in shame and sheer terror.
“I have seen this before!” he cried.
My mother. My mother the levitator. What a beautiful life…
I looked for the words to comfort him, some words he might understand.
I spoke my mother’s name.
My father shook.
She was a women of thirty-three when she floated up.
We watched her change from local beauty to strange, small shape to speck of cloud.
The entire family was surprised.
I mean, she was only thirty-three.
I remember her dark hair blowing in the cold, blue sky.
My father trembled. I rose higher still.
She had skin like chrysanthemum petals.
My father screamed, “There’s nothing to breathe where you’re headed!”
She wore a forest-green dress with white bandages all over it.
I didn’t care much about the lack of oxygen.
There was some euphoria there instead.