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Spinning

I watch them on the playground spinning on the soft spring grass. Three little girls, their laughter mingles with birdsong and an insistent intrusion of street traffic. Young legs deftly propel while arms cut through the air like raptor wings. Their pearly milk teeth catch the morning sunlight, sharp edges not yet worn down by years of eating crow.

I remember spinning, head tilted skyward, hair loose and blowing like a mustang's mane. The world whirled around me, colors streamed together in a delightful, jumbled swirl, time defined by rotations and street lamps, butterflies' alighting and lightening bug's flashes. I threw myself to the ground, fatigued, while a dizzy display played before my eyes. I didn't stop time at all, just delayed its approach a moment. With its encroachment, nausea overtook, and I closed my eyes to prevent throwing up.

I adjust my position in my wheelchair to better view their antics. The girls hurled their young bodies to rest, curls mingling black, brown, red. They quiet, and I wonder if they are realizing for that moment their own mortality.

Story by:

Kerry E.B. Black

kerrylizblack@gmail.com

9 June 2014