Living on the Ceiling

It was a favorite pastime,

lying on my back on a couch or the floor,

gazing up at the ceiling

and longing,

longing.

How I wanted to live up there,

not be stuck on the floor,

amidst the clutter

of furniture

and rugs.

That smooth, inviting ceiling!

What I could do!

Dance. 

Skip. 

Run. 

Even lie down and roll

in the emptiness.

Such freedom!

Such joy!

The hanging lights would, I knew,

stand upright on their stiffened chains

in the middle of every room,

but that was all right.

They wouldn’t be in the way.

Besides, how lovely to live

where the lights lived,

what fun to gaze

at upside-down couches,

the coffee table scattered

with books and magazines,

the piano I’d never learned to play with any grace,

my mother’s antique spinning wheel

which I used to send

my smallest dolls

on Ferris-wheel rides.

How fine to be done with all that

and to have, instead,

unimpeded space.

Better, even, to step

over the doorways

instead of walking

straight on through.

More interesting.

More fun.

Even in the great open room

where I went for Saturday dance lessons,

I’d lie on a mat off to the side and gaze

at the vaulted wood ceiling,

climb the canted sides,

slide back down,

watch

the

distant

dancers.

Then one day, truth dawned.

The truth of a young girl

who needed honesty,

even from dreams.

If I lived on the ceiling,

I’d spend my days

gazing at the floor, longing …

for comfortable furniture,

for books waiting to be read,

for the piano I could play beautifully

if I only tried a bit harder,

for doorways

to pass through

without lifting a foot.

For my friends,

my fellow dancers.