The weave on the armchair has a rough burlap feel, scratchy and even hairy where the strands have frayed out.
I sigh at Jed, towards his camera anyway, the long black scope and lens that have replaced his face, and I hear the clack of each shot he takes, my display of grace memorialized.
A flock of birds escape out of the field we’re shooting in, screaming boredom as they leave.
At least I can brace my hands on the armrests and bounce on the cushion, still springy.
Beating at the high back of it, dust and mothball
smells come pounding out.
I groan out loud, "I don’t know what to do
with this thing!"
So I let it cradle me, my knees locked over the
sides, and my head wedged up against the rise of its arm.
“At least pretend to laugh or something,” Jed-the-camera-face said.
With a snarl, I pivot around my butt in the
armchair, so that my legs stand straight up and my head falls back—my hair dropping down into the yellow grass that has
dried but keeps reaching up—my face swells with the pressure of
hanging upside down.
And I laugh, cause I still hear the clack-clack-clack
of Jed’s dutiful commemoration.
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Photo attribution*: See page for author [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
*(Dear Anna, ^ clearly ^ I am desperate for awesome pictures!)
*(Dear Anna, ^ clearly ^ I am desperate for awesome pictures!)