When I was a kid, if I could have had just one wish, it wouldn’t have been for a million dollars or world peace, or great beauty, or a horse (although that one would have been close to the top of my list) – I would have wished to be able to fly. Not in a plane, but to just spread out my arms, give a couple of flaps, and take off into the blue. I wanted to soar among the tops of the clouds and swoop down, weightless and totally free. I wanted to feel the wind lifting me up and slide down warm drafts like an invisible rollercoaster. (I especially felt this way during Mrs. Houghton’s math class.) Sometimes I would even move my arms up and down, trying to build my muscles, just in case.
I knew that it would never happen, but one could dream, couldn’t one? My best dreams were ones where I could fly. Although they usually ended with me unable to get off the ground because there wasn’t enough wind, or there were too many electrical wires strung across the sky.
I still dream about those wires. They represent, I’m sure, responsibilies - the obligations and expectations of society.
I’m too old now. I’m earthbound and solid. I don’t want to fly any more. Not often, anyway.