The gorge plunges beneath Susanna’s feet, her shoes displacing loose red rocks that tumble to the unseeable depths. At the precipice of this dizzying landscape all she can think about is the parenthetical you. The subject of imperatives. As she’s always taught her students, the shortest sentences are one-word commands, like Stop! The subject (you) is understood.

The parentheses around her own (you) hold her back like cords. Stay safe. Come back. Don’t jump.

Syntax, she tells her students, is like the pattern of beads on a string.

It would be easy, she thinks, to cut that string.

It is easy. She breathes one word, an onomatopoeic expletive. Snip! It will feel like flying, she thinks. The imperatives release their hold. 

To her surprise, she does not jump.

Disentangled from the strands of syntax, her body now pulses with the deeper language that thrums from the ancient red rock and expansive blue heights. She feels its embrace, a rising warmth, rooting her in a panoramic welcome, opening her heart to the magnitudes.

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