Francine likes to climb.  She likes to climb to the top of the tallest
bookcases and survey her realm.  She stands back on her haunches and sniffs
deeply of the rarified air.  She leans out as far as she can to bring the
wide world into myopic focus.
 
When she is done seeing and smelling all she can see, she starts tossing
things off the shelf to summon me to come fetch her down.  First, small
things.  Then larger things.  Then breakable things.  She watches them fall
and waits for my step.
 
The other night I was on the phone and did not hear the first small thing
hit ground.  I heard the big thing.  I had removed the breakable things, so
I thought I would just let her wait until I was done talking.
 
But Francine hates to wait.
 
I said my goodbyes and walked to the bedroom.  I was greeted with a scene
that replayed itself in my head even as I watched it unfold:
 
A small barrel tumbling over Niagara.
 
A small reentry capsule splashing down in midocean.
 
A little ferret head peeking out of an old Nike crosstrainer (left shoe)
gliding to the floor.
 
She was still for a moment, still cocooned in the padded shoe.  Then the
little pilot popped out of the cockpit and scampered away from the wreckage.
 
Now I sit typing with an ear cocked to the other room, waiting for the other
shoe to drop.
 
-- Lee, a member of the groundcrew
[Posted in FML issue 2207]