Over the Moon
The city beneath me looked like it does in a puddle when someone's just about to step in it: blue and blurred with the lights and the dirt sloshing together in a kind of urban alchemy.
I had been expecting a huge surge of climactic elation. I had assumed that my wings would wrap around me and that I would corkscrew into a pink and cotton-candy-flavored cloud. And the violins would swell.
But the orchestra remained silent, with the exception of some of the more excitable woodwinds, and let me contemplate without cues. I was sailing on gusts, higher and through the clouds (grey and water-flavored), unsure of what to do with myself, listening to the silence flap past my ears.
A jumbo-jet roared overhead. I would have turned around to ride the currents on my back, the tips of my wings skimming the clouds below me, leaving two thin tire-tracks before the mist closed in on itself again, me smiling like a protagonist. I would have done that had physics not been against me. I had to strain my neck at an odd angle to see the jet, and I didn't like the way that it upstaged my silence.
The other sky-bound commuters took my presence even less kindly, and I did my darnedest to swat them away. Those telephone-wire tenants of my past pecked and clawed at my wings, dragging me from the sky, and scaring away my lovely, flapping silence. As I flapped away farther they avoided the thinner atmosphere of my destination. If my life was more poetic, the glue in my wings would have melted.
It was one thing to realize that you want – need – to go there, and another to find out how to get there, and how to get back, and whether it would want to see you too. Eventually, and after heart-breaking effort, I saw it looming above and below me, huge and white and pocked with previous disappointments.
And the orchestra swelled.