Day 989

from a photograph

He tosses his child
into the air
as parents have always done
with their small children.
The boy could be eighteen months.
He laughs wildly, flying there
as children have always
wished to fly
against the clear blue sky
for a moment; then
falling safely
into his father’s waiting arms.
Over and over they repeat this:
release. Toss. Catch.
They are playing a game
of exhilaration. They
are rehearsing — given
that drones, at any moment,
may cross that sky; given
that this father
cannot promise he will always
be there when his child
completes his descent —
they are rehearsing
loss. Abrupt
disappearance. The impossibility
of being sure. Despite
their smiles, the hilarity
of their game, they
are preparing for when
the child may fall
into nothing. For when the father
may lift his arms and receive
into them no warm
living giggling boy.