His feet never touched the ground. When he walked through a crowd, his gait was always a little bit higher than everyone else’s. Sometimes they noticed it, and sometimes they didn’t. But he always knew it himself.
It was a cushion. Invisible air separating the ground from the soles of his shoes. Ever since birth, or at least he imagined so, guessed that is, retrospectively asserting his special skill – it always was and always will be.
Then that day happened.
He took another step and the cushion rose. Then another. And another. Like walking on an invisible staircase. It was high noon, and he cast a shadow directly below himself. Just a dark oblong oval. It got smaller and smaller and moved along the ground in a line as he stepped higher and higher. Eventually it got so small that it disappeared completely, and when we looked up into the sky he was gone.
(Photo: Todd Petit)