With each kick we climbed higher, closer to heaven. The wind
roaring by as we flew through our pendular paths, we knew we'd
eventually reach the atmosphere and drift, weightless, toward the stars.
As we reached our apex, we hung there for a moment, our heads tilted up
toward the sky, our bodies parallel to the ground, in some suspended
animation. Our eyes wide with all the promise of the future, our mouths
agape as if to draw in the elixir of the summer night. Our souls,
drawing from the vigor of our youth, leapt up, tickling our bellies as
they crept out momentarily. A blur in the moonlight.
But then gravity, with the watchful eye of a mother, pulled us,
first reaching to our chest, then embracing us in whole, saying,
"That's quite far enough."
And we descended back toward the earth, the groaning of metal singing
through the neighborhood as the chains pulled taut with our weight. Our
feet dangled as we flew backward, quickly returning to an ascent. The
seats under us pulled away as we began to float again, and we held
tighter to the chains, because on the backswing, our heads facing down,
we couldn't be sure what might await us if we lifted and drifted away.
But, as always, the world kept us honest, and it again pulled us back
into reality, our legs always outstretched on the return as we
anticipated the next climb. Another reach for the stars.
Sometimes, when we grew tired or reconciled with the fact that we
couldn't pull ourselves any higher and allowed ourselves to slow to the
gentle rock of a cradle, we reached for the fortitude for one last
drive. Just at the moment that we streamed so high we secretly worried
we would flip over and tumble head-down toward the earth, we launched.
Limbs flailing, we braced ourselves, not for the landing, but for the
moment in which we would become Peter Pan. Perhaps that's why, our legs
uneven and swimming, we touched down with the grace of a dictionary
dropping from the very top shelf and the ground sent lightning through
our heels and into our ankles. We winced, and held it long after the
sparks had withdrawn. We would try again the next night.
It continued on like this, even as the neighborhood transformed,
green giving way to gold, the chill of the night reaching into the day.
Until our parents called us home or the first fall of snow beckoned us
to the nearest hill with sleds in tow.
Throughout the winter, as we trudged through the snow, we forgot
our aspirations for flight, our airport becoming a relic of another
lost season of our youth. We passed it daily, saw it buried in little
white hills, the peaks of its towers still visible, like the fossil of
an elephant resting in a dune. We hardly noticed it during the cold
months.
I touched it once, during an especially frigid January. The sky was
as pale blue as the raised veins on my grandmother's hands and the wind
felt like sandpaper upon my cheeks, and I had, for the first time,
lamented the past summer for reasons beyond wishing for a break from
school. I approached it as if it were an open coffin, and I stood there
for a few moments wondering why it had drawn me in. I looked around,
scanned the landscape for anyone who might catch me in the act, as if I
were about to dip my hand into a basin of holy water at church. When I
felt safe, I withdrew my mittens and reached out. My hand approached
the pole with steady deliberation. I investigated the nuances of the
steel as my hand crept closer, realizing the speckles on its shell —
charcoal, silver and slate. My hand trembled slightly as it drew within
an inch, the bitter wind tearing at my revealed skin and the
electricity of the beam lashing out, licking my fingertips until,
finally, I embraced it, wrapping my hand around it like the grip of a
bicycle handle bar. The wintry metal stung my skin, but I didn't
retreat. I waited until I was certain. Until I knew it was frozen.
Until I knew it was lifeless. I staggered back home, not really certain
what had occurred.
When the snow melted and the brilliant radiance of the sun once
again heated the seats, we returned, as we had many seasons prior. This
time, however, we dove and soared through the air without any qualms
against gravity. Our dream of flight subsided. |
Floating
by
mike hart
issue 31
february 16th, 2009
photograph by arturo obscura
|