the other day I was walking home from school and found myself at my least favorite intersection (least favorite because I never ever get the light and have to wait literally minutes before I can cross - and this happens multiple times a day) when a little blue car made a careless right turn and hit (not too hard) the back of my legs. I fell forward in the crosswalk, awkwardly dropping my books so that I could stop the fall with my hands.

it was not a beautiful fall.

days later I realized that I was bothered by this. and I remembered the first time I realized that a fall could and should be a thing of beauty. I was running behind my elementary school in macon and something hit me (a ball of some kind?) and I fell, splayed out like a rupturing star on field b. the supervising adult and a group of kids all rushed up to me. I felt, in my whole body, the gesture and drama of the fall was something to be admired, revelled in. and I expected my classmates to say, "oh my gosh are you okay?" or "golly that looked like it hurt" or anything of the kind.

but my face prohibited such a comment. instead, one wondering boy said, "she's smiling," and that's all anybody said about it. that was one of those early times when it occured to me that I may not, so much, be like the other children. it reminds me of a story I read a long time ago about a little girl who would throw herself on her bed and sob and cry until it occured to her that what she was doing was very romantic and that someone looking at her would think her a very romantic girl. then she couldn't cry anymore.

and how sad would it be for a girl to realize in falling that her fall was beautiful, and to be unable to fall any longer. to be henceforth, always, suspended.