It only seems like slow motion when
tumbling to the ground because I’m aware of every step. The first step on
Colorado River rocks behind the koi pond’s waterfall, another step on uneven
rocks for balance, and the feet are leaden, refusing to lift high enough or
quickly for more balancing steps as the momentum of my body pushes forward,
aware the tipping point has slipped behind me, the right shoulder crashing into
a spiny asparagus fern spreading over
more large rocks on the mounded perimeter of the pond. No banging of the head
like two friends who died from falling, sudden leaks in the brain. There is
slight pain from the thorns of the fern and the middle finger on the right hand
throbs from cushioning the impact. Add blood-thinning meds since a heart attack
more than a year ago and skinny white legs sticking out of cargo shorts look
like someone has been playing mumbly-peg with a sharp knife. Small cuts bleed
as if they are more dangerous ones and they do so on through the night.
What’s disconcerting is the tumble happened to a formerly agile guy, one
who climbed ladders daily hanging lights in a theatre. It was the inevitability
of hitting the ground once the fall started, knowing no instinctive maneuver
would be quick enough to avoid the accident. It is like the sudden looseness in
the steering or the brake pedal going all the way to the floorboard, the sudden
acceptance of a crash into rocks covered by a pondside fern.
