Fallie

I am 10 months old, and I'm learning to walk. It's all about balance and taming gravity. When it comes to standing up straight, my tiny buttocks appear to be surprisingly heavy. One, two, three steps... plump! Mama smiles gently and calls me a fallie. She also says I'm a fast learner. She says many things, half of which I don't understand. Daddy is even worse. I complain the only way I can, but they still keep smiling at me with dark blue circles under their eyes. And I'm learning to be less whiny.

***

I am 14 years old, and I'm learning to walk all over again. I remember me shouting "Dad!", screeching tires, and a sharp jolt to the left and then forward. Dad saved a moose. A slender pine took the hit and probably saved us from flipping over and breaking our necks.

It's not about balance anymore. I can't feel my legs quite well; they don't belong with the rest of the body. But I will not fall: the walking rails won't let me, and my hands are strong. I'm no fallie. Doctors say I'm a fast learner. I know it; I've heard it before. They also say I've got my whole life ahead of me.

***

An hour past the sunset in the village. I'm shooting stars with my green laser pointer. Finally, a few of them give in and start falling into the void of the night. "Fallies," I whisper.

Make a wish.