It’s a hot Georgia day.
Humid as a muthafucka here at Ft. Benning, Georgia.
It’d been another day of running for no goddamn reason.
It’d been another day of wishing I was buried in my bed.
It’d been another day of wishing my limbs were tangled in a noose of broken bones.
The crystalline forges icy gloss on my legs and neck. The excess I rub on a towel.
Up at the crack of dawn,
And down as the sun fades behind an Alabama sky.
The engine roars with disappointment and wind gusts between my fingers.
First comes heavy breathing,
then throwing up on the seat,
steal beneath upon which my feet stood, holding a static line.
Shaking with uncertainty,
My hand wraps a noose (a static line),
Not for death,
But for life.
The damn wind flushes tears as I stare at the horizon.
A slap on my ass and a stride of purpose pushes me; I hand the man the noose as I make my way through the door.
I slam my eye shut, counting.
A pop jolts my body as if a noose on a tree had stopped my fall.
I lift my gaze; my parachute opened.
I hit the ground running, thankful for the jolt-like noose.
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(© 2020 Andrew Cyr)