Some joys begin exactly where the last hand lets go.
The monkey had one hand on the rope.
This was not the problem.
The problem was that the next rope was somewhere else.
It hung a short distance away, swaying lazily between two trees as though it had no particular responsibility for what happened next.
The little monkey looked at it.
Then at his hand.
Then at the rope again.
A warm breeze moved through the leaves with a soft shhhhhh. Somewhere below, damp earth smelled of moss and yesterday’s rain. The rope felt rough and warm against his palm.
He tightened his grip.
Excellent.
Nothing had changed.
The Important Part
He swung once.
Back.
Forward.
Back again.
Each time, the next rope came closer.
Then farther.
Then closer.
This appeared unnecessarily complicated.
On the fourth swing, he stretched one arm toward it.
Too far.
On the fifth, his fingers almost touched.
Almost was encouraging.
It was also completely useless.
So he swung higher.
His tail curled. His feet lifted. Leaves rushed past his ears, and the wind pressed against his round little belly.
Forward.
Back.
Forward—
He released.
For one astonishing moment, he was holding nothing.
His mouth opened.
His eyes widened.
The forest seemed to stop.
Then—
Grab.
Both hands closed around the next rope.
The monkey swung forward with a shriek of delight loud enough to disturb several birds who had not requested involvement.
He had done it.
Naturally, this meant he needed to do it again.
One More
The next rope was higher.
He swung toward it.
Grab.
The next was farther.
Swing.
Release.
Grab.
Soon the journey developed a rhythm.
Rope.
Wind.
Leaves.
Release.
Air.
Rope again.
His hands began to smell faintly of bark and dry fiber. Tiny bits of rope clung to his palms. His fur lifted in the breeze. Every successful catch produced the same enormous grin, as if no monkey in history had ever encountered a rope before.
Perhaps joy has a very short memory.
That may be one of its advantages.
There are small pleasures that survive precisely because nobody asks them to become important: skipping the last stair, cracking thin ice on a puddle, catching a falling leaf, taking the longer path because it has better shadows.
Nothing is achieved.
Nothing is improved.
For several minutes, life simply becomes enjoyable.
The monkey would probably have agreed.
If he had not been busy screaming.
The Last Rope
Ahead hung one final rope.
He paused.
This one was farther than the others.
The monkey swung backward until his body nearly touched the leaves.
Then forward.
Back again.
Higher.
The rope rushed toward him.
He let go.
Air filled the space beneath his hands.
His fingers stretched.
Almost.
Almost—
Grab.
He swung in a magnificent arc, legs wide, tail flying behind him.
Victory.
The rope carried him through the leaves and out into a small clearing.
He slowed.
Blinking, he looked around.
There was the mossy log.
There was the crooked branch.
There was the little patch of yellow flowers.
And directly in front of him hung a familiar rope.
The first one.
He had travelled through half the trees in the clearing.
He had released six ropes.
He had crossed several terrifying inches of open air.
He had arrived exactly where he started.
The monkey stared at the first rope.
The first rope swayed gently.
He grinned.
One hand reached out.
Apparently, getting somewhere had never been the point.
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