Her Name Was Polly

When I was little, mother hovered over me like one of those twenty-stories-high Macy’s parade balloons, a giantess with blond hair under a bandana, her shirt tied up to reveal her waist. A giant floating being stayed in the air, as if held by strained ropes, as if she might break away. I was often afraid she would float off. Even when very young, I sensed her restlessness. I would place my small hands around her ankles, know then that she was there, right there. But sometimes she looked up into the sky as if she might disappear. And sometimes, she did.