One Bite of Light
by Crystal Craig

We pump the swing gently,
feet never stretching for the sky,
as if joy has an altitude limit.
A small arc,
a careful breeze on the face—
just enough to feel movement,
not enough to tempt gravity.

We tell ourselves
less height means less fall,
less joy means less pain
when the horizon darkens again.
We call it wisdom.
Or perhaps it’s the muscle memory
of growing up with caretakers
whose own bones rattled at our laughter,
whose balance tipped
when our grief came through the door.

So we portion our bliss—
one bite of light,
one bite of imagined sorrow—
training the psyche
for the taste of disappointment,
so when the inevitable arrives,
it is already half-chewed,
already sliding down partially digested.

And we do it in so many ways—
falling in love again
but never fully exhaling after a brutal divorce,
bringing home a puppy
but already rehearsing the ache of the rainbow bridge,
sending our art into the world
while bracing for the letter that says no.

Sometimes I wonder—
does waiting for the fall
invite gravity to find us sooner?
Do we become prophets
by denying joy her full measure?

Thank goodness children
have not yet mastered this form of adulting—
if they had,
who would dare get on a bike,
climb a tree,
or launch themselves
into the sky on a swing?

Or maybe this is simply
what survival looks like—
when we chain our joy to our fear
and ration it in doses
our fragile hope can bear.

Ah, but what a freedom
to let laughter lift us without measure,
to feel the air rush in our lungs,
to savor the remission
before the cancer returns—
to rise high, higher still,
so that even if we fall,
we have truly, gloriously,
touched the sky.