My Parachute
I grew up longing to jump from a plane,
to float to the earth
beneath a
billowing
parachute.
They did it in movies all the time.
Those World War II GIs leaving
their lumbering planes behind,
proving what a fine thing
such a leaping,
such
a
falling
could be.
Brave men,
keeping the world safe
for Democracy.
I had no desire to be called up
to keep the world safe,
but still,
I wanted
to leap,
to
float
to
the
earth
beneath a billowing cloud of white silk.
Lacking an airplane,
I made the next best choice,
a swing hanging from the elm
in our side yard.
First, though,
my parachute.
A section of torn sheet
rescued from the rag drawer.
It wasn’t silk, of course—
cotton would have to do—
but it was white.
I tied it at the four corners
and attached the strings to my back.
Then I mounted my swing
and launched myself into the air.
Higher and higher I pumped.
I could feel my parachute tugging,
ready for the launch.
I pumped higher still.
When I rose so high the swing stalled,
the ropes suddenly slack,
I leapt
a
n
d
f
e
l
l
proving the pull of gravity
as effectively
as any
apple.
I limped into the house,
certain that my plan
had nearly worked.
The problem was only
that I hadn’t jumped
from high enough.
Not enough time
for my parachute
to deploy.
Nonetheless,
some part of me
must have been
wiser than my dreams
because I never sought
a higher altitude
to test
my conviction.
My parachute,
just
another
rag.
