An Elegy for Dust and Flight

And then one day he sat down to a microwaved Stouffers dinner to instead find himself on the house’s wood-veneer floor, staring into the space between the dining table’s legs. There was no pain, not as though the chair had been pulled from under him, but more as if he had simply moved through the chair and come to an abrupt stop. As though he had frozen in a sitting position and the chair, the floor, the house, all of it had rotated a few degrees upwards around some arbitrary celestial axis, stopping seconds short of where it should have been.