Musings

what we were meant for …

A memory:

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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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