My father thinks that he can get me to go in a hot air balloon by bringing a basket home and having me get used to it.
Come on in, he says inside it. Feel the strength of the wicker.
But I’m not afraid of the basket, I’m afraid of falling out.
He puts things inside it to get me to climb on in: licorice ropes, scissor-salad tongs, several black kittens all tied together with string. A soft little chain gang with claws.
I go in after the kittens and ignore the strength of the wicker. I know that it’s sturdy, but that’s not the point.
Three weeks pass and he carries away the basket with some friends from his handball league.
Can’t blame a father for trying, he says. I hand him the salad tongs, but he won’t take them back.
Those are yours, he says.
Are you sure?
Your mother would want you to have them.
I find homes for all of the kittens, but no one wants the licorice.
