After descending

seventeen stories

into the Niagara Gorge,

the Cave of the Winds

opened before our eyes,

a subterranean tunnel

stretched for hundreds of feet…

then, countless red steps

and miles of wooden decking

reached up into the roaring

water, falling thousands of feet.

“Proprioception,”

the doctor called it,

just weeks before the trip;

the diagnosis washed us with relief,

a Gordian knot

unraveled inside.

The boundless energy,

his joy in lifting

dangerously heavy objects,

the compulsion to touch

everything

from doormats

to wall coverings,

and the bumping

and tripping

over his own feet –

stealing my breath

when he ran up

and down

the basement steps –

it all fit.

Now, as I dressed him

in a sunshiny poncho

and oversized sandals,

I repeated the chorus,

“You will hold my hand –

you can’t let go at all.”

And the boy squealed

whether in delight or horror was uncertain.

Up and up –

How many times

did I catch him

from falling?

“You can’t let go at all.”

Up and up –

How many steps

did he shakily take?

“Hold my hand.”

Up and up –

Why the hell

would they call it Hurricane Deck?

“You can’t let go at all.”

Up and up –

How many blasts of wind

shook us,

pelting us while we climbed.

“You must hold my hand.”

Up and up –

The thin, plastic poncho

was a sieve.

“Hold on!

Don’t let go!”

I shouted over the roar

of the water,

and he laughed

and jumped

and writhed with exhilaration and life,

my hand

his only lifeline

when the force of the mist nearly tossed him

off the deck.

If I had it to do over again,

I wouldn’t change a thing.