There is a version of me still rising. Still passing the bride, the firefighter, the man with the tie. Still heading for the dark between stars.
(Out of Body Experience)
The tether yanked.
That’s the part no one tells you: the silence. Down in the body, there’s always a hum—blood, digestion, the grind of molars. Up here, pure acoustic zero. I could have shouted her name until the walls bled sound. Nothing. I was a ghost in the only house I’d ever known.
I’m the one who did.
Not the ceiling. Me .
I looked back.
Now I’m an adult with a mortgage and a pill for my thyroid. I stand in grocery lines. I return library books. I attend meetings where we discuss “synergy.” And every few months, without warning, I’ll be washing dishes or sitting at a red light, and the floor will go soft. My hands will look like someone else’s hands. And I’ll remember: