/   /  By Emma Birches
Stone Soup Magazine
March/April 2010

By Laura Dzubay

I curl my cold fingers
Around the yellow Frisbee
Coil my arm back
Dip it low, flex my wrist,
It sails smoothly through the air
Floats gently above my father’s head
And then
The wind carries it slowly
Into his waiting hands
He smiles and tosses it
Back into the wind
I am prepared
My arms are open, ready
As his were
To grasp it, to hold it in my clutches
But instead
The wind takes it,
Swoops it, low and high
I am snatching air,
And the Frisbee lands
Softly in the grass,
Wet with mud
I pick it up
Bend low,
Step forward,
Let go.
Dad leaps
With a ballerina’s grace
His hands clasp
Around its plastic yellow body
Our eyes lock
He nods, I nod,
A mental understanding
Then it’s whizzing through the air
A bright, lemon-colored streak against the violet sunset.
I push off the ground
My feet lift from the grass
I reach for the sky,
Palm open
My hands snap shut
Like the pincers of a crab on the beach
And suddenly it is there
I am holding it
My sneakers meet the ground
And I am thrusting it into the air
A triumph
He smiles
I smile
The yellow disk
Is in my hand
We smile
We nod
Go home
Now we are done here.

Frisbee Laura Dzubay

Laura Dzubay, 11
Bloomington, Indiana

About the Author

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