parachute ovenbird At dinner I couldn’t find my way into the conversation. The flow of topics felt like that parachute teachers used to haul out during gym class. You know the one—red and blue and green and yellow wedges of nylon all sewn together in a huge circle. Everyone grabbed a piece of the outer edge and flapped the fabric so it billowed and turned into a rainbow sea in a gale force wind. If you timed it right you could sneak under the edge and wander around in there and, if you were me, you could then panic that you would never get out. I tried and failed and tried again to slip under the edge of the conversation. Words kept coming down too fast and I was left awkwardly wondering how to get a grip on the edge. A woman that I don’t see often asked me what I do for work. I told her that I’m a perinatal counsellor. “Oh!” she said. “That’s why you haven’t said much. You’re a really good listener.” I mean, I guess that’s one way to spin it, but it was more that I couldn’t figure out where to position myself or what to contribute or how to interject without feeling like I was rudely interrupting. I think I’m more of a picnic blanket person than a parachute person. I want to find a grassy knoll to sit on. I want to bring one other person with me, spread out a small blanket just large enough to sit on with our knees touching, and share sandwiches and cookies while letting the conversation move gently in and out of comfortable silence. The dinner conversation roiled and bounced and frothed and I could feel the slippery texture of it evading my grip. I wanted to do what we all did as kids in gym class at the very end of our time playing with the parachute. In the final moments we would all lift the fabric into the air and pull the edges down behind our backs and sit on it, so a dome of colour floated above our heads and everything was still and silent for a moment as the satin sky came to settle upon our crowns. 250926 what's it to you? who go blather from