Well, I'll be a Bell

I know I am the most simplistic way to develop him. Made from cast iron, I am a cannonball with a handle, designed for explosive movements. Only with the right strength and flexibility has he perfected just how to grip the center of my mass. Sometimes, I pretend I’m like an ishi sashi, those handheld weights shaped like padlocks and made of stone. But, if I were an ishi sashi, then that would mean he held the key, and I’m not sure I want to give him that much power. At least, not yet. Maybe eventually, with enough training. I’m still not sure he has what it takes.

Hands, warm and calloused, grip the piece that connections my bottom half to the top. His movements show he knows what he’s doing. Or at least, I hope he does. With a high pull, his arms bow out like a bat’s wings, bringing me right underneath his chin. Years of shaving has left his skin with divots, scars from his quest to fit in with everyone else. He should just grow a beard and be done with it. Racked, I’m resting on his forearm in the crook of his elbow. There’s a scar there from a fall in creek when he was a child, chasing after a girl. I know because he always worries it right before we try this move, every single time. He breathes in. Deep. Lowers me below his waist; a slight pause and then we’re back up again – this rollercoaster clean and jerk ride repeated over and over until he’s pouring droplets of his existence onto the linoleum floor. A quick pause for a reset and then he snatches me from the ground, pressing me up toward the track lighting. With a slight thud, I’ve landed on his wrist, softly but with power. I think I’ve left a bruise.

He stands, wide legged like a horse riser, catching his breath and holding onto me with two hands. I don’t know why he saves this for last, but it’s always the same sequence. He thrusts his hips, making his body into a standing V shape. He swings me. Up and up, until I’m just parallel to the ground. The journey is thrilling. Repetition after repetition, we take this ride, always moving in unison. His grip starts to give. Even with the chalk caking his palms, I feel myself becoming unglued. He starts to cuss just as I forcefully fly out of his hands, crashing into my own reflection. Now we’re both shattered.