by Brenda Anderson
Every year I wait for spring, when the sun’s overhead, the flowers are waist-high and the wind tickles the grass. I don’t know the names of the flowers: they’re like overgrown weeds, tall, spindly, with small nubby yellow heads. There’s a clean, fresh perfume in the air, too, like a door leading to forever.
I look around. Everything has to be just right.
Sun in position? Check.
Flowers, the right height?
Now for the magic.
I put on my special joggers. If I run fast enough, I swear, they give me trampoline movement. I jump and I stay up … for a bit. It’s that moment I want: that golly wobble moment, when the whole world hangs in the balance and I’m in the centre.
Doing what I do best.
I take a deep breath.
It’s an old paddock, used to be wheat or something, now weeds. The farmer died and the son’s inherited the farm, but who knows when he’ll actually do anything. It’s been like this for ages. Nothing happening.
I shade my eyes. Everything’s just right.
I start. In no time, I’m sprinting.
I hit the flowers. They bend aside. Naturally, they know who’s boss.
I run faster.
I make giant leaps.
Zooooiiiiiing, up. Zonk, down.
I’m shaking the flowers up, big time. Perfume clouds the air. Fresh, sweet. The scent of forever.
I make an especially big leap.
And twist in the air.
It’s an art, see? I practise it, often.
I jump and twist and think: soft, woolly lamb. I think myself into the lamb. They do that stiff-legged jump, right? Their legs are straight and they jump up and down. Pronking, they call it.
I think myself into a woolly lamb.
I’m in the air, above the flowers, I’m wild and woolly and I can’t get enough of jumping. It’s in my bones. I jump for joy, oh boy, you’d better believe it, I’m a woolly lamb and I’m loving it.
The golly wobble moment.
I hang in the air, and look around. Forever, it will be sun, silence, flowers. The world bows to me. The flowers bow. I’m soft and woolly and I don’t give a damn.
I’m a lamb.
I go down, and land heavily.
My foot hurts.
I limp home.
But I did it.
That golly wobble moment. It’s mine.
©2018 Brenda Anderson
Brenda Anderson’s fiction has appeared in various places, most recently in Daily Science Fiction, Every Day Fiction and Eternal Haunted Summer. She lives in Adelaide, South Australia and tweets irregularly @CinnamonShops.