You are mid-fall; a grimy yellow parachute flowers above you, and you are holding onto the string having already done the hard task of pulling it and releasing that which, so joyously, holds your life in the sky. You never had to jump off the plane. The sky is mild and fragrant as linen but the parachute is the thing you love here. You never did expect it to burst forth crackling from your pack with such chipper reliability — you never had that sort of faith before. You came in just before your doubt, just before the moment of despair stepping off the plane, but you feel it in the utter relief that must be its contrast. The cloth looks like the petal of a marigold spackled with pinpricks of mud, for it is no virgin parachute unaccustomed to the act of rescue, but it feels like tent canvas. You can depend on it. Your toes are brushing the ground. You will stroll onto solid earth soon. You are already laughing.