Defying Gravity
Jan 25 2011


Toboggans like this
are relics.
All wood
heavy as a garage door.
A graceful curve, on the leading edge
steam-bent
by a master craftsman.
The pad, for our frozen bottoms
long gone,
consumed by mice, or mould
in summer storage
in a dank corner
of the leaky shed.
And wax, for slickness
or it would stick —
all front-to-back, tightly packed, ready to go,
marooned
in clumpy snow.

The ultimate gravity sport.
And metaphor
for faith.
No steering, no brakes
no control, except for bailing
into snow that looked deep, and fluffy,
but was rock-hard, underneath.
And trees, flashing past faster and faster.

But back then
before seatbelts and helmets
and even doctors smoked
we were sent out to play
all day, Sunday,
and told don’t be home ‘til dinner.
Where we duly arrived
glowing with cold,
unimpressed that we had survived
a whole day
of falling.

20 minutes, trudging up
hauling that pig of a toboggan
for a minute of giddy pleasure —
not for us, instant gratification.
We surrendered to fate
with the bliss of ignorance,
and learned uplifting moral lessons
about the virtue of work.

While our parents stayed home
together,
probably not deferring pleasure.
And instead of surrender,
defying gravity, exhaustion, age
in their own private way.
More than content
to let work wait.