There are moments when gravity becomes optional, when the body remembers what it was built for before it learned to think.

It begins in the chest — a lightness that spreads outward like spilled water finding its level. The living room stretches before me, suddenly enormous, suddenly full of possibility. The hardwood floors that normally bear my weight with such resignation become a launching pad.

I am airborne. Briefly. The sofa becomes an obstacle course. The coffee table, a landmark to navigate around at speeds that surprise even me. My ears — those magnificent, impractical things — catch the wind like sails. For thirty seconds, maybe forty, I am not a contemplative creature prone to staring at walls and wondering about the nature of things.

I am just movement. Pure, unthinking joy translated into physics.

Gus watches from his corner of the sofa, unimpressed. He has seen this performance before. His expression suggests he finds my sudden athleticism both predictable and slightly beneath his dignity. When I finally collapse, panting, he returns his attention to whatever invisible thing commands his focus outside the window.

The episode passes as quickly as it arrived. I am myself again — measured, observant, a little heavy in all the best ways. But somewhere in my chest, that lightness lingers, patient as spring snow, waiting for its next moment to surface.

~P.W.