The Absurdity of It All

By Auriah Jordan-Smith

This tin shed is stifling. I roll in circles around the wooden basketball courts, feeling free, spreading my wings like a bird, but they only cut through the thick air. Each feather is damp with sweat, sticking to each other. There are four or five others sitting on the grandstand: Mothers wrestling knee pads to fit around their swollen thighs, children naughtily loosening the chin strap of their helmets, a girl my age tightening the pink laces on her roller skates. There is no sound except for the squeak of my wheels and the pitter-patter of leaves and twigs on the roof high above. Droplets of salt form on my upper lip, and I drink them, grateful for some kind of liquid in this heat. I close my eyes coming around a bend just to feel the floorboards; How some sections are uneven, with missing splinters covered by electrical tape, where others are polished to perfection. A woman smiles a great white grin at me as she passes, soaring, auburn hair streaming behind. And then she falls. Vibrations and echoes travel through the air, all the way to the opposite wall, from just one knee hitting the ground. I’m briefly thinking something of a butterfly effect or ripple effect, but--”Could you help?” “I don’t trust my balance…” And suddenly we’re both sprawled on this unforgiving floor, cackling in a pool of metaphorical blood, and entirely real sweat and tears, about the absurdity of it all. Her eyes are shining, utterly dazed. “Who thought shoes with wheels was a good idea?!” I try to answer but can’t get enough breath in my lungs to form the words: Thank you.

By Auriah Jordan-Smith