Seventy-Three

inertiatic:

she told me once how she always dreams of flying,
how, sometimes, she would even wake up floating
and that her mother would fill her pockets with rocks, so that she wouldn’t lose her like a balloon

nothing is as serious as it seems, she says, that’s why i’m so light
though, with age comes a certain shifting heaviness
that her shoulders have become grateful for, even if she still insists on holding onto me while we take walks, just in case

but together, we’re more like clouds, never worrying about the direction of the wind
offering the mercy of summer-shade to other balloon-children, playing, while the rocks shuffle in their pockets
and the sky wrestles with gravity, sending dreams of flight, like maps, in every direction.