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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