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Show without a sail. Streamers they are called, one long line of body and fabric knifing through the sky. My brothers, however, only saw glamour in having parents who rode the clouds. They broke from me and ran along the ground beneath the plane, guessing where they might land. My parents said later, all of us gathered around the kitchen table and reliving the day, that the hardest part was letting go of the plane, that both of them stood on the wheel, holding the wing, wind washing over them like surf, unable to let go. It took several passes of the plane as well as the shouts of encouragement from Donna before each in their turn could let go. And the falling, I asked. Not like falling, my mom said, more like swimming, s^u^a^rvmg in a sea of air, the quiet so absolute that you find yourself making noise just to know that you still exist. The needle is as long as my thigh, and I only catch sight of it when the nurse picks it up from the metal tray and hands it over my curled and naked body to the doctor. I am told to lie perfectly still, as if I were unconscious, and that any movement on my part could leave me paralyzed. The doctor and the nurses discuss whether they should tie me down before they administer the spinal tap, but my mother, who is with me in the room, rubbing my forehead softly and telling me that it will be okay, insists that I can hold still without restraint. Responsibility for my future is given over to me and immediately the desire to move consumes me. Itches are everywhere, tickles and twitches, limbs falling asleep and begging me to move them. To be responsible for another's life is not new to me, though the responsibility for my own is. It reminds me of working around my father's power tools, being told that one 80 |