Flying
When I was a kid, I could fly. I wasn't a dumb child. Actually, I was very intelligent. I knew that the average person didn't go around flying, unless, of course, they were in an airplane. This didn't stop me from believing, no, knowing, that I could fly.
It only happened late at night, when everyone else in the house was sleeping. I would stand on my bed, hold out my arms, and fly across the room. Dreams you say, right? I always have been a vivid dreamer, from the time I was old enough to remember my dreams. I always knew the difference between a dream and reality though. No matter how real a dream seemed to me, when I woke up, I always knew that it was just that...a dream. Flying was different. It was never a dream when I flew. I was always wide awake. If it had been a dream, I would have flown to exotic places, or even down the block or outside of the house. It only happened in my room though.
When I flew, it was something I could feel with my whole body. I guess the closest I could come to explaining it is to compare it to a roller coaster ride, but without the fear. I could feel my body slicing through the air, gliding around my room. I knew in those moments what it was like to be a bird. I felt like a balloon that got away from a small child and was floating free in the sky.
As I got older the flights stopped. I grew up and started to doubt that it had ever happened. I chalked it up to childhod fantasies, and yes, dreams. Even so, my memories of flying always stayed in the back of my mind.
Last night, long after the day was done and all the children were dreaming of sugar plums, my son got up to go to the bathroom. After he went back to bed, I got up out of my bed to close his door. When I was done, walking back down the hallway, I got this incredible urge. I held out my arms and flew into my room and glided into my bed.
God, it felt good to fly again. |
