To Fly

You used to tell me your favourite dreams were dreams of flying.

You loved the freedom,

The escape,

Soaring above the pain that grated your joints

And twisted your fingers,

Pain that made you grimace when sitting

(or standing, or lying, or being still),

That sent your tongue clucking as you

Fumbled with your lighter

Or the twist-top of a gin bottle.

But, in your dreams

You sailed

Effortlessly over rooftops and frozen rivers,

Past yawning fields and frosted forests,

The full moon casting your tiny, bent shadow across the crisp white snow.

I have never had one —

A dream of flying.

I listened to you with yearning,

Yet in my dreams my feet (my heart, my mind) remained

Anchored to the earth,

Grounded in asphalt and concrete,

In dirt.

I have never dreamt of flying

And now you are gone

And I am desperate to find you again.

Could I meet you there?

Once, as a child, my mother took me to a hypnotist exhibition.

Prospective hypnotizees lined up on the stage like bowling pins,

I among them. But first — a test...

“Now,” the hypnotist explained, eyebrows raised, fingers flexed,

“Close your eyes and extend your arms out in front of you.”

Eyes clenched I raised them poker straight.

“Very good. Now, imagine one arm is affixed to a helium balloon and the other to a balloon filled with cement.”

I envisioned these balloons hanging off my respective wrists,

Triceps tingling, I did not budge.

As the seconds ticked by

I congratulated myself on my determined commitment;

I would not move an inch until the hypnotist gave the go-ahead.

I would pass this screening test with flying colours;

I would be the impeccable follower of directions,

The most. perfect. candidate.

“Now open your eyes!”

I jumped at the wave of enthusiastic applause for my counterparts on the stage,

Arms splayed apart like fleshy windmills;

Free-spirited clock arms eager to embrace the power of suggestion.

Blinking back tears, indignation filled my throat.

My mind raced at my miscalculation;

He never said we could move our arms; he only said to imagine!

I had followed the directions to the letter

And I had failed.

My rigid arms and I were shuffled offstage with the other delinquents.

I had proven myself neither worthy nor able to mentally escape the tired wallpaper and threadbare carpet of the aging hotel conference room.

No one had told me my limbs could get carried away,

That my imagination could supersede specific instructions,

Or doing it “right”,

Or trying to “win.”

So, thirty years later here we are.

And across all bounds of logic and reason,

And thresholds of the living and the dead,

I need you to find a way to tell me.

Please.

Invite me.

Choose me.

Give me permission to let go,

To untether myself

To fly with you.

Don’t assume I know what to do,

Or can.

You were always my magic,

Wrapped in an old worn-out housecoat,

And I miss you so much I can taste it.

Come and find me.

Take me with you,

Just for a little while,

To dream and fly together.

Each night,

When I close my eyes,

I wait for you.