Frisbee.

I fumbled with it the first time I held it between my fingers. I had seen my parents float the frisbee to each other with effortless flicks; they harmonized. From my mother's hands the disc would hover in the air only to fall into my father's to be spun back to her. And in this gentle way they kept their love afloat.

As I said, my first time, I fumbled. I tossed the frisbee slowly, tentatively out to him, this boy I met by chance on the campus quad. Shaky with reservation, the disc tottled far away. He ran after it and missed. His toss, in turn, spiralled to the ground. Later, he confided that he didn't like tossing the frisbee, and again the disc slipped between my fingers. It might take awhile to find someone who would toss with me steady frisbees: in sync, and straight into my arms.