isabel, the girl who flies

I used to be a trapeze girl. I used to tumble through the air. I used to be the best, but would pretend I didn’t know. You used to watch me and wonder how I had no fear—how I could let go of one bar and fly to the next without wings. You used to think it looked so scary, so effortless, so magically beautiful. You used to think I looked like a sparkling princess in the clouds. Except there were no clouds, only lights that blinded me if I opened my eyes at the wrong time. And plastic tent fabric that you never saw, because your gaze stopped at me. Because I was the best. I was the…best.

I used to be a trapeze girl. I used to scale the tall ladder to my post. I’d smile and pose like a movie star, then do what no movie star could ever do. You’d hold your breath. You’d clutch the fabric of your sweater. You’d try not to blink till the saltwater escaped from the corners of your eyes. I looked so pretty through your tears—a flash of color that darted and spun like a fairy. A purple fairy who was more at home in flight than she ever was on earth. Only there are no fairies. So not like that at all.

Falling feels like flying, did you know? The only difference is the breath. When you fly you exhale in one long sigh, which lifts you higher than you ever thought possible. You inhale when you fall. Who knew a breath could be so heavy. Down, down, down, to the place where the net is supposed to be.

I used to be a trapeze girl. I used to think there were feathers on my back. The ground is so dirty and mean. And it’s everywhere. I don’t like to feel it beneath my feet. I’ll walk to you, though. I promise I will. Just please make a pathway of pillows for me to cross.

I used to be a trapeze girl. I used to tumble through the air…

Oh.

I must be thinking of someone else.