Musings

what we were meant for …

A memory:

image

I am just a girl, with one skinny arm thrust from the car window.  The hand cupped to cut the air:  lifting.

I am too young, then, to have learned Bernoulli’s Principle, or to have heard the word “airfoil.”  But still, my palm curls into the wind, without needing an explanation.

Without knowing why.

*

Then, too, there are my shoulder blades — the bones folded tight beneath the skin, in a shape that could only suggest what they might have been.

Or might still be.

*

And lastly, there is this:

the small, broken-winged bird still alive in my chest, beating against the bars of my ribcage.

Scuffling and fluttering to get free.

*

And so, at sunset, I go walking in the fields. (I have dreamed the moment so many times, it no longer seems strange.)  In the center of the field I stand perfectly still, looking up, into clear blue air.

I feel my cupped hands lifting …
the bones in my shoulders shifting …
the bird in my chest hammering
against my sternum.

And I wait …
still I wait …

image

…to rise. ❤

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18 thoughts on “what we were meant for …

  1. I absolutely love your use of imagery here. Waiting… … … The bird in my chest is definitely hammering to get out, but if I did open its cage, it wouldn’t know where to fly to or how.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. It’s such a beautiful piece of writing, though I’m not really sure what it’s about. I understand it as either rising from extreme difficulties OR rising to ones potential and unique place in this world. Anyhow, I find it lovely that you leave room for interpretation.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you, Heidi … And it sounds funny, but I sort-of love that you weren’t exactly sure what to make of this one. I wondered whether this one was too obvious, actually, and tried very hard to keep things a little watery and to leave room for your own thoughts and discoveries.

      And I like *your* discoveries … A lot! 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

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