Flight

I have a small metallic sculpture of two ageless, genderless figures sitting on a bench. The structure goes round at the top like an archway, and at the apex is a metallic sphere, a globe. You can make the figures swing, hypnotically, by pushing the globe. If you give them a big push they will swing quickly and gradually slow down until they are still, like a real swing. It belonged to my grandmother and she gave it to me when she saw how much I loved it. We know nothing of the figures, they have no characteristics, except for being separate beings who are together, companions, swinging. I truly can’t think of anything anyone would want more. The gift of the companion, and the free time to swing, and the force of the wind, or of God, pushing it. As I get older, my desires become simpler, but more complex to realize. I choose to spend a lot of time alone, but there comes a point, eventually, of deterioration—claustrophobia, paranoia, even delusion. Ultimately, blindness. Another person, unbridgeably and indelibly separate from myself, leads to the unfamiliar—the only means by which we can really see. I experience a deep breath instead of a shallow one. Flight. The other person gives us life.