When I was a lad I was certain I could fly. I had regular flying dreams.
Everyone does, but most forget. I remember feeling so strongly in every bit of
my body, and soul that I could lift myself into the sky, and be blown by the
breath of G-d to the heavens.
As I post this the
feeling returns to me.
How well I recall my innocent plans to
one night perch on the windowsill of my bedroom. I'd clip away the nylon summer
screen, perch on the sill, and leap into the night.
First I'd
glide to the upper branches of the tree in front of our humble Brooklyn
brownstone. From there fly loops around the taller elms on my block then off
into the predawn to my Aunt Agnes's house in Queens. I was going to surprise
her.
I really, and truly believed I could do this.
I think kids fly all the time in the cool quiet of
summer nights. They soar above all of us that look to the ground. We who have
forgotten that magic is real, and we can do or be anything. Anything at
all.
"First star to the right, and straight on till
morning."
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