by J. Randall Brett
You will want to catch her mid-air. At least break her fall after she sews all the little silk circles together, knots in shroud lines, and tries jumping off the barn roof. She had stolen a few of the tiny parachutes she packed into bombs every day out at Pueblo Field. With her brothers flying by the light of their own flames over Tokyo’s docks, she felt she had a calling.
Or when she was younger, angry that they wouldn’t let a girl go hunting, she saved her penny candy money to buy bullets. You will want to tip their trajectories away mid-flight, when she used the neighbor’s turkeys for target practice.
You will want to spare the lift of her hand to her mouth, because roasting a bullfrog over a campfire is not the best way to find out why the French eat les grenouilles.
Because when you are her very spit and image, what is true for her is true for you.
So much that when you are a teenager, those brothers must leave the room when you walk in, unable to bear the grief from the sight of their loss.
Because you have eaten bullfrog.
Because you love the smell of cordite.
Because your own grief needs a parachute
for every tall building you enter.