Frostwritten

We had an assembly at my elementary school when I was in third grade. It was a magic show. I don’t remember much of it, but the magician did one card trick that has been burned into my memory for years.

The details of the set-up are hazy, since it was over two decades ago, but the trick ended with him flinging an entire deck of cards upward, and a sungle card getting stuck to the ceiling. I think it was the two of diamonds, maybe three. I’m sure there’s a non-magical explanation for it, but the effort was still impressive at the time. There was a hearty round of applause. And I do remember that the magician assured a couple of school staff members that the card would eventually fall back down on its own, likely in a couple of weeks, and at maximum, a few months.

The assembly was held in the school cafeteria. So from that day on, every single lunch period, I would look at the playing card stuck to the ceiling. Day after day, it remained steadfast. Weeks passed. A few months passed. Months turned into marking periods. Marking periods turned into years. That card did not fall, and I looked every single day.

It wasn’t until my final year in elementary school, roughly two-three years later, that the resilient card fluttered down. It was in the middle of a lunch period, so there were several witnesses as the card drifted down like a snowflake. And, this might be a fanciful embellishment of my memory, but I swear there was a small smattering of applause.

That card held on for a long, long time. Way longer than anyone, even the magician, probably expected it to. And there’s something special, I think, about something so small, so seemingly insignificant, defying the odds in such a way.

It makes me want to defy them, too.