He says it never happened. The airport, his arms dangling me over the railing. In the memory I can’t see my body. I see tiny travelers below. The glossy tiles. And I hear him. But the girl: Is she screaming, holding her breath? I know one thing. I tested it. This Thanksgiving I climbed the mezzanine in his garage to get down the antique washboard while he watched. I lifted a shaky foot; his single clap echoed. It never happened like that: the railing, the airport. Nevertheless, it’s true. When I feared I was about to fall, my father laughed.
Angeline Schellenberg published Tell Them It Was Mozart (Brick, 2016) and Fields of Light and Stone (UAP, 2020). She hosts Winnipeg’s Speaking Crow reading series. Find Angeline at angelineschellenberg.wordpress.com, on Twitter @poetic_Angeline, and on Instagram @angelineschellenberg.