Creative Non-Fiction On Odyssey: Micro-Metamorphosis
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Politics and Activism

Creative Non-Fiction On Odyssey: Micro-Metamorphosis

The sky tumbles into and out of its own reflection, and I fall.

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Creative Non-Fiction On Odyssey: Micro-Metamorphosis
Jonathan Petersson

At camp Lakeshore, everything smelled like sand, sweat and sunscreen. Sand was as constant as air—in our breath, our clothes, our hair. It scratched our skin and shortened our tempers, yet the very irritation made us laugh. Gritty between our teeth, sand wore our words smooth before they left our tongues.

A prime example of humans doing things to prove we can, Elephant Butte is a man-made lake in the middle of the desert, where water skis and rattlesnakes are spoken on the same breath. To us desert children, the brown and murky lake was paradise.

In the wake of a receding waterline falls a steep slope. After breakfast, we slide down cool sand. Climbing out, each upward step slides down. Worse, come lunch, the sun has beaten hours into the sand, heating it nearly to molten glass. Sandaled feet sink deep, and we feel our skin burning, melting. Sometimes, I imagine I can smell it, sickly sweet and horrible, but the only smells are of sunscreen and lake.

From the blue and yellow stripes on the inflatable edge of a floating trampoline, three of us learn to roll backward and make gravity spin. The sky tumbles into and out of its own reflection, and I fall. The harder part is not to panic.

“Straighten your legs as you hit the water.”

After an hour, three become two. The next day, we jump. My lungs leap into my heart as I leap and fall.

“Really throw yourself backward.”

Time and again we climb onto the trampoline, hot sun drying murky lakewater from our skin. The second morning, two become one, and I learn to backflip alone.

At fifteen years old, I stumble into a defining moment. I am the bookworm, the smart one, the knower of useless facts. I am not coordinated, fast or strong. I have never been the daredevil.

Here, in this manmade lake in the middle of the desert, I have to decide: is this fact or choice? Can I be more than I have been?

“You’re getting closer. Keep at it.”

I can do this. I can fly. I just have to fall until I can fall no more, and flight becomes the only option left.

I can’t find up. My legs do not straighten—which way is down? Gravity lurches but will not spin, and I cannot find the sky. Every inch of my skin is slapped by unforgiving water, and only my teeth do not sting. Sunburn gleams on my cheeks, masking the flush of frustrated embarrassment.

“Just try again.”

Five days of trying and I am sure—I cannot be this bold, backflipping person…but, I cannot give up, not after spending every morning, every afternoon, not after hurting and trying and caring more than I dare.

All we campers have become alike: our skin reddened by sunburn and sandscrape, darkened by small bruises from games and sports. Aloe Vera, icy in opposition to the blazing sand and sun, joins the familiar mix of smells.

End-of-camp nostalgia colors the air. Friday at lunch, I start to panic. We leave Saturday, and I have yet to do a backflip. What if I don’t? I will always wonder—could I have done it? Could I have been more, if I only had time?

In the end, stubbornness saves me. I finally find the point where I can fall no more. Friday afternoon, I complete my first successful backflip. The sky opens beneath my feet—I can do anything. A few more hours of practice, and the fluke becomes a constant. I have done the impossible, and I am no longer who I was.

Then, camp ended and with it, the relevance of my victory. I have never done a backflip since, but then, it was never really about the backflip. It was about possibility, potential and perseverance. It was about micro-metamorphosis.

Once, just for a moment, I flew. I fell into the sky and swallowed it in lakewater. Since then, my feet are lighter on the ground—lighter by a mouthful of sky.

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This article has not been reviewed by Odyssey HQ and solely reflects the ideas and opinions of the creator.
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