sweating on the ledge

a visit with mr. flop

Up on the ledge, a quarter way up the cliff, I sat there sweating. My cousins bobbed happily in the water below. The youngest shouted up. Your turn old man.

The sweat began to drip from my armpits onto my ribs. It was damp and clammy. My stomach churned as my brain whirred. Ok dude. Gotta do this. Once you skip a year you’ll never do it again.

Did I actually do this last year or was the year before the last time? Despite the heat and the stupidity, I was ice cold and more than a bit afraid. Of what? I don’t know. I’d jumped off that ledge dozens of times before. What could I be afraid of?

Was I afraid of the cold? Not so much. I didn’t welcome the cold water, but I could take it. I wasn’t certain that I wanted to. There. That was the fear. I was afraid of stopping. I was afraid of giving up. I was afraid of looking longingly at the cliff and thinking about it the same way I think about dance clubs: A place for young people.

I stared out at the horizon. My cousins chirped from below. Babb…