I stand on my hands, heels hovering against the living room wall. Gravity comes home; my body comes home. They dance. I waver, elbows aching, arms quivering. Keys fall out of my pocket with a clatter, then three quarters one at a time. I remember to breathe. I fall.


Again. And again. Eventually my heels do not touch the wall, but the next time I slam against it. My palms are warm and my fingers twitching. The teapot sings. I fall. Outside, sparrows are building a nest in the eaves, and somewhere a nuthatch traces spirals down the trunk of an oak. On a hike someday I will trace my fingers along the holes he leaves and nod to myself. My heels hit the wall. I fall.