Flight.

My dad told me once that if I tried hard enough, I could fly.

Meaning of course, that if I worked hard enough and worked well enough, I would succeed and do really well in this world.

But I want to fly.

That breathless feeling when your stomach soars through your throat and the air is rushing past your face in a nose-numbing, waterless river and your hair flies back from your face and the smile is plastered across your face, your eyes are watering and each breath is hollow and your laughing gets snatched away by the airstream’s fickle fingers and is flung backwards into someone’s face.

And then your mom pulls up to a stoplight or you have to roll the window up and the dream is closed off behind the glass of a window. And you sit back and imagine.

Where would you go if you could fly?

I would go back home. Heresford. Tiddington. Stratford-upon-Avon. Penzance. London. Langollen. Tarrington.

I would go abroad.  Canada. All over Canada. Japan. Kotelny Island in it’s beauty and zero population and negative five degree weather. Bundle up, y’all!

I would go to Texas. Visit my sister in college. My cousins in Helotes. Love on my widowed grandmother. Help her weed and feed the birds like I used to do daily. 

And then I would stay with her and feed the birds and scatter the seed. Watch their bright blue and red feathers glimmer in the sun. Listen to the hummingbirds sing over my head, whirling through the bright blue sky, the dancers of the air.

Wishing I could be like them. Their food is always awesome. They have a variety. They could eat out of a different feeder every day. And they get worms. And they get to look amazing while they're at it. I mean, come on. Have you ever looked at a cardinal? A blue jay? So beautiful.

But I can’t be them. I have to wait. Until I can find my feathers, that right windstream that will pull me up and push me forward. 

So I can soar.