Gravity didn’t work on you.
Hovering above the ground when you walked in.
A cowboy hat or a Cowboy’s cap.
Belt and boots.
My tiny hands always reaching up to you.
Hoping to fly too.
There’s no gliding now.
You can barely walk.
The cancer so severe it’s withered you down.
Taking you slowly.
Gravity pulls me to stay close.
My hands still reaching.
But there will be no flying today.
Our make-believe airplane grounded.
Now just a memory.