tightrope

I go carefully, pushed by an inner pressure, but careful not to lose my footing. The tightrope stretches far out ahead of me and I shift the weight of the backpack as I make my steady way forward, on and on. Someone hands me an awkwardly shaped bowl, one I need to stretch my fingers out to balance on the palm on my left hand. I wobble, but regain my balance and keep going. A hat is placed on my head. It's itchy and ill-fitting but if I keep my head straight, it stays on. I keep moving, trying to ignore the stretch in my left fingers and noticing for the first time the weight tied around my right wrist. In some ways it balances out the left, but it seems to be getting heavier. My arms are held our wide, to help with the balance, and hold the bowl, but they are getting tired. My legs too, always so strong, are beginning to shake. I pause, breathe, and restart. My mind shifts from one discomfort to the next. Maybe if I just pull my fingers together a bit, the bowl won't feel so awkward. Maybe if I wriggle my forehead, the hat will stop itching. Maybe if I bend and stretch my right arm, the weight won't feel so heavy. My foot slips and in slow motion I watch myself fall, the bowl reaching the ground before me and smashing into a thousand pieces.