one step

Once the morning light hits your retina it takes as little as 100 milliseconds for it to be processed and translated to a sleepy, blurry image by the visual cortex in the back of your brain. That’s faster than you can blink. By a lot.

The soft sound of your loved one’s voice in your ear reaches your consciousness at approximately the same rate. As does their scent, followed by the warm, full, comforting smell of freshly brewed coffee. If you drink the stuff, of course.

The touch of their hand in your registers just a little bit slower, given the length of your extremities, and as you rise and put your feet on the wooden floor, the cool, soft, sometimes grainy sensation is felt after the merest pause. Blink and you’ll miss it.

There I was.
On the ledge.
Returning the gaze of the abyss.
All I needed was one step.
One step.

There would be no pain.
How could there be?

One step.

The symphony of the wind.
(Close your eyes, take it all in.)

I flew forever.