Oobe

There is a version of me still rising. Still passing the bride, the firefighter, the man with the tie. Still heading for the dark between stars.

Don’t look back .

He never came back down.

That was thirty years ago.

I floated six inches above my own chest. From that height, my body was a beached thing, pajamas twisted, mouth open on a wet snore. My mother sat in the rocker, knitting something gray. I waved my new, translucent hand. She didn’t look up. Of course she didn’t. I was made of nothing but window glass and held breath. There is a version of me still rising

I looked back.