The Sadness of Gravity

"Darling, do you know the worst part about being fired out of a cannon?"

Rossa Richter takes a sip of her pre-prandial sherry and places a frail hand on my arm.

“It’s the circle of bright blue sky at the end of the barrel, the light at the end of the dark tunnel. It's the knowing that you’ll never stay in that deep blue sky. That you’ll always float back to earth.”

Ms Richter drinks to stoke her memory.

“It was at the opening of the new Royal Aquarium in London and I was just 14 years old. The “Great Farini” presented me with the dubious honour of being not just the first woman but the first human ever to be shot out of a cannon. With the crowd cheering crazily in anticipation, I lowered myself into the cold, black hole of that cannon, whispered a curt Hail Mary and faced possible death head on.”

Ms Richter draws two fingers like a gun. She points her rifled fingers at the cloudless sky.

“Even though it was only for the briefest moment, I stood there in the darkness, body rigid and mind focused, for what felt like eternity. And then ‘BANG!’”.

She closes one eye and fires her fingers at the sky.

“Though my aerial escapade lasted only a few seconds, the thrill of it was intoxicating and I have never felt the same since”.

I look from her face to the deep blue sky as her infant-like grip touches my arm, and feel, for the first time, the sadness of gravity.