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 …
…to rise. ❤