Floating
On the hottest day of the summer, while he was feeling a little light-headed probably because of his swollen sinuses, while his wife waited for him to help her unroll a new Persian rug to try out in the living room, while his daughter was texting one of her boyfriends about a concert out on the green, Joe Lewinske rose toward the ceiling. Surprised at first, he kicked and clawed the air, but that did nothing to get him back on the ground, and then he began to enjoy the sensation of floating, even though it was a little hotter up near the peak of the cathedral ceiling. “That can’t be good for your heart,” his wife said. His daughter shut her cell phone and looked up at him. “Awesome, Dad can fly. “Come down,” his wife said. “I need you to help me
with the furniture.” “Come down,” his daughter said. “I want a ride.” But Joe felt the air pressure under him and didn’t actually know how to get down. He exhaled fully, attempting to make his body as heavy as possible. He came down perhaps two inches, but as soon as he breathed, he was touching the ceiling again. “How about some help,” Joe asked. “Do something: Throw me a rope, or get a step ladder and bring me back to earth.”
His daughter left the room and came back with a video camera. “We can make some money off this,” she said aiming it at him. His wife approved. “Why not reality TV?” “Our father who art in heaven,” the daughter said. Joe watched his wife unroll the rug, lifting the legs of the couch, table and chairs. He felt drowsy and didn’t know if he could keep his eyes open, so he pressed his back against the ceiling, spreading his arms out as if the ceiling were the floor. Before too long, he dozed off momentarily.
When he opened his eyes again, his daughter was still shooting video footage. “He’s like a big Jim Henson puppet,” she said. “He’s more like one of the three bears,” his wife responded. “He’s like an angel without wings,” his daughter said. “More like a pudgy cloud,” his wife answered. “No, like a pink dirigible,” his
Jeff Friedman
daughter countered. “He’s like a million dandelions gone to seed,” his wife said. “He’s like a rubber duck," his daughter said, "a cartoon bunny, a feathery pillow—" “Like a sheet that the wind catches,” his wife interrupted. "Like a downy pile of leaves that flies up on the wind," his daughter added. “Like sparks from a bonfire shooting into space,” his wife replied and opened the screen door to let in some air. “That’s better.”
When Joe began to float around the living room, his wife and daughter turned in circles below, his daughter still filming. “Do something,” his wife said, before he makes another mess.” She handed her mother the video camera. Retrieving a broom, his daughter tickled his belly with it as she guided him over the partition through the kitchen and hall and back around into the living room while his wife kept the camera on him, holding it in one hand and opening the deck door with the other. He could see where his daughter was steering him. He veered away from the wall, ducked the chandelier and rowed his arms desperately to avoid floating out the open door into the ravine, but soon it was obvious, he was headed toward yet one more catastrophe.
Jeff Friedman’s fifth collection of poetry, Working in Flour, will be published by Carnegie Mellon University Press in early 2011. His poems, mini stories, and translations have appeared in many literary magazines, including American Poetry Review, Poetry, 5 AM, Margie, Agni Online, Poetry International, Prairie Schooner, Antioch Review, Quick Fiction, Nighttrain, and The New Republic. A contributing editor to Natural Bridge, he teaches at Keene State College in New Hampshire. His book of translations, Two Gardens: Modern Hebrew Poems of the Bible, has been accepted for publication by Wolfson Press.
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