I steady myself . Blink . My palm slips against a cool porch pillar , yet I can ’ t seem to extract my other hand from the horrible shape my mouth is making . I let out – not a scream – but a kind of vibrating uhhhuhhhuhhh from between my fingers . The empty swing pushes up , still groaning . Like the swift slide of a chess piece , the child has advanced to the ceiling , is perpendicular to it , but is sticking there , attached , not falling , quite upside down .
With some massive effort I find a way to move my legs . Crouch down . Grope for the peeling knife .
The swing executes one final push ; its empty bench at the most unnatural of angles , the curved smile of the seat transformed into a precipitous frown . Through the slats , one cloudy eyeball swells . I launch the knife .
I think I must have dozed off from the Sauvignon Blanc , because the sky is dark now , far darker than before , and I ’ m back sitting on the swing , bowl of sweet potatoes positioned tidily on my lap .
Something curious about my hair . My ponytail is loose ; it ’ s hanging in limp strands . I look down at my feet on the ceiling .
The swing is reversed , its chains attached to the floor , its bench almost touching the roof of the verandah . I ’ m not supported by anything , yet I ’ m not falling , either .
I see land first , my land : my shed , my canoe , my boat , then the rippling lake and sky , a vast , eggplant sky ,
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