I stand beneath the counter, the world a skyscraper around me, surpassing the heavens as I struggle to simply graze the granite with my fingertips.
I cannot remember what it was on the counter that seemed so imperative, but I can remember glancing around the kitchen that once seemed so spacious in search of some aid to reach my goal,
and finding nothing but myself. With no other options save self reliance, I jump, flailing upwards, praying my fingers make contact.
They slam on the counter and I grip tightly, holding on as long as I can before my young, feeble muscles tire and I fall to the ground,
where I receive a quick smack to the bottom from tile that is always sparkling.
How dare I attempt to break glass ceilings and join the angels above the counters when clearly my place was on the ground.
I cry for what seems like hours, not from the pain on my behind, but from the pure shock of failure and my weak understanding of my place in the world.
I want to be able to do anything, and yet I am unable to even retrieve my mystery item from the counter.
No one comes to comfort me from my discovery.