by Robert Scotellaro
They ease from hot air balloons onto clouds like silk scarves slipped from a sofa. There is a family of them. There used to be twelve, but now there are nine. Too heavy a meal or lack of concentration and there is always a trapdoor waiting.
It is said, as infants, they could crawl over crumpled Christmas paper without making a sound — gliding across it like a breeze.
In an interview one of them, a wispy fellow in his forties, after a divorce, claimed gravity grew in him like a boulder too heavy to carry up. So, he waited, watching TV and drinking oxygen for years.
In an early issue of their in-house newsletter it is written: It is essential to learn the comfort of loose molecules. To wear the body like a few thin threads.
Once, when an elder was asked if he preferred cirrus over cumulus, he replied: “I prefer a cement walk after a heavy snow is cleared. Or the crunch of dry leaves underfoot in autumn — I’m retired.”