Slip

by Mike Scofield


Grandma smiles when she looks at me, her eyes behind glasses content.  I give up the armrest for her.

“This is going to be fun!”

The jet has been climbing since we took off.  The former astronaut is droning about weightlessness, how we achieve it, what to expect.

“When the plane descends quickly enough, we float.”

I don’t want to know how it’s done.

Grandma looks at me, doesn’t listen to him.  Maybe she knows what to expect. 

She’s always been firm in her beliefs.  Maybe what she believes will come true.  I hope so.

I do my best to shut out the amplified voice.  Weightlessness explains itself: not like a fall off a ladder or riding a waterfall – it’s the feeling of suspension with nothing to drop into, nothing to hold one up.  The sensation of dreams. 

I try to remember if there ever was firm ground under my feet while I dreamt…

“Here we go!” says our pilot.

Grandma comes loose from her seat.  The belt rises and settles.  I undo mine and escape the chair while I point to the buckle for her. 

“Release yourself, Grandma!”

She fumbles and gets it.

The two of us rise to the arc of the padded ceiling.  Our heads brush the top and we smile at each other.  Grandma does a somersault and her weightless laughter rings down through the tube of unleashed bodies.  Padded giggles clatter back to us. 

We lock arms for another spin, faces close and bright. 

She says, “Have we died?”

“Nope!”

“Can we stay like this forever?”

“As long as they keep us from gravity.”

And that ain’t long.

We gain weight slowly and settle toward our seats.  I adjust Grandma so that she will return right side up.  She feels about forty pounds.  I pull myself into my seat and sigh.

The astronaut is telling us what we just experienced.  I try to shut him out.

“Is that all there is?” says Grandma.

“I believe we go again.”

She nods, wistful for the last past moment.  “It’s nice to slip your moorings.”

“The slip is our descent.”

The plane climbs again.  We are as heavy as we will ever be.

“I don’t think I need to do it again.”

“C’mon, Grandma, it was cool!”

“No.  I’ll watch you.”

She is content and I am selfish.  I want to go alone.  I don’t argue.

“Here we go!”

Grandma moves slightly under the strap but stays put.  The blue veins of her hands gnarl her attachment.

I lift off and circle above her, grinning down.  I merry-go-round the headrest and it gyroscopes me back.  The wind from my limbs could hurricane a butterfly.  I get the giggles then bark laughter.  There is an erotic touch where parts that weighted me before pendulum to a different dimension. 

I twist and spin, levitate and sink, crab-crawl the cabin walls.  The fuselage headstands me, I pogo and jockey.  I swan the depths and vulture the heights.

Grandma, seeker of wisdom and solace, has closed her eyes and relaxed her grip. 

I gravitate. 

She slips.