Backs Against the Wall

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I may be a Tinkerbell, but I’m definitely Tink when she’s trapped in the lamp gasping for her last breath, begging the world to believe and clap their friggin’ hands. In essence, I cannot fly. I know it the second my foot leaves the ledge. I feel it when I go airborne. I’ve done this sort of jump enough to know my limits, to know when I’ll get hurt and when I’ll be fine, and I absolutely know it now.

It’s too far.

I tuck and roll the best I can, but gravity is unkind. I’ve gathered momentum, too much to be useful, just enough to be hurtful, and I tumble head over shoulders over side over elbows onto knees. I’m pretty sure I did a cartwheel back there somewhere, something I wish my mom could have seen. She spent hours with me in the backyard one sunny summer day trying to teach me how to do them. I always managed to land on my head. She eventually called it, telling me to give it a rest before I hurt something important. It’s advice I wish I’d remembered back up on that higher roof. Now as the skin of my face is left somewhere 10 feet back, my right cheek having taken a hell of a blow on the rough tar rooftop, I also remember something else important.

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