“No, it’s okay. I can do it myself!” Gleek says firmly. The attendant releases his hold on the bungee cord and Gleek proceeds to shift her body to increase her bounce height. She is safely tethered between two poles above a trampoline, but I can see the slight uneasiness in her face. This “sky flight” looked so much easier from the mall floor when she decided to spend five of her precious Christmas dollars. I see her shift in the harness, uncomfortable, but not willing to let that discomfort prevent her from doing the tricks she wants. Bounce by bounce she goes higher until she dares a flip. Her hair flies back to reveal her triumphant grin.
My body moves in sympathy with her bounces, as if I could somehow help from my seat on the bench 20 feet away. I don’t mean to do it, but some part of my brain knows that if she would only shift just so, her bounces would be higher. My muscles flex in a vain attempt to telegraph motion to her. Gleek soars into the air again, flipping, bouncing, only occasionally glancing at me to see if I am watching. This is what she needs from me, a witness to her efforts.
Sometimes Gleek’s motions go wrong, killing the bounce. She jiggles on the ends of her tethers, trying to regain lost momentum. The attendant reaches to help and Gleek waves him away, just as she waves away help both at home and at school. I’d watched this guy with the other kids. He pulled on the bungee and they flew much further than they can get by their own weight. He keeps his hands by his sides and watches as Gleek builds her own bounces. I still my body yet again.
When time is up, she comes back to the ground both glad to be done and wanting more. We gather her purchases and collect her shoes, mall trip complete. Then we head out into the bright world to find a new challenge for me to witness.