Ballast

How long will you carry it, this weight? If the original idea was that it would hold you in place, it has done so, has pinned you not exactly on but so near the ground it's functionally the same. It is a form of stability that is closer to stagnation. What heights could you have reached? The birds you could have met, clouds you could have passed through, gossamer air, pale blue horizons within reach. For years I've watched you hover barely above the ground and waited to see when you'd cut yourself loose and where you might fly to. And the world has turned beneath you with you directly above it, fundamentally rooted to the spot. I thought you'd want to be free. Some days I blamed the ballast for holding you down, the dead weight, the burden you apparently believed had to be borne. Sometimes I blamed you for not releasing it. As long as you held it, your hands could touch nothing else, and I couldn't imagine why you didn't just let go. Your fear of the altitude you could reach, maybe. Was that it? Did the potential feel overwhelming? Or maybe, maybe, the fear that the weight isn't what holds you down at all. The fear that you were never meant for flight, could never soar, that your freed hands would remain empty and you'd have nothing to blame now. I believe you could have flown anywhere. Instead you held on, still hold on, your face sour as grapes beyond your reach, and the grass shrivels beneath your unmoving shadow.