The Time That I Learned to Fly

The Time That I Learned to Fly."

Spring arrives with such a slow, subtle grandeur that it's easy to forget how long it's been since you've seen the sun shine.

It's easy to forget that warm, fresh air doesn't make you invincible.

The leaves return to the trees. The dead grass shifts to an evervescent green. Chattering squirrels scuttle across sidewalks while the soft sound of flapping wings fills the air. The birds are back, ready for the hunt. Of course, many of them never left and the squirrels have been there all along. But it's spring. And you forget.

The sun hits my face with a pleasing warmth and the deep breath I take fills my lungs. It soothes them, cleansing the months of abuse from winter's cold, brittle air. The bird lands in front of me.

"Hello," it says, "wonderful day, isn't it?"

Then he flaps his wings and disappears into the afternoon sky.

It's then that I make a decision. I will fly.

Today.

Now.

As soon as possible, I will join the birds, riding the wind, looking down on the world. The decision is instant. There's no internal debate. I just know that it's going to happen. Today.

The inherent problems with this decision don't occur to me right then. The fact that I don't have wings; that man, up to this point, has not been able to fly without sufficient, mechanical help; that this is beyond crazy. None of these things spring to mind.

I just know that. Today. I. Am. Going. To. Fly.

So I climb a tree.

I jump.

I hit the ground with a loud, uncomfortable thud.

Undeterred, I climb higher.

The result is much the same. Except that this time, when I hit, it hurts much, much more.

I assess the situation. I look at the birds. Their wings flap quickly. It dawns on me that I've been doing this wrong. I've looked at it like I was Superman. I put my arms in front of me, leapt into the air and prayed for the best. That's why I have failed.

So I climb to the first branch of failure. I flap my arms as fast as I can and leap into the air again.

The ground is as unwelcoming now as it was on my first attempt. But today, I am going to fly.

The second branch of failure waits for me and the wind blows in a reassuring manner, patting me on the back, encouraging me on my mission.

I flap my arms, leap--

And belly flop to the ground. The air is forced from my lungs and a stabbing pain not felt since -10 degree winter winds invades.

I lay there, waiting for my breath to return to a steady pattern. In the sky above me, a hawk circles. His wings are spread gloriously, flapping only occasionally as he glides along the breeze.

His wingspan is double the length of his body, beak to tail. That is my problem. My puny human arms aren't long enough to give me the lift that I need.

PVC. Small dowels. Thin, strong hemp string. A couple tarps. Some duct tape. Scissors. An old back pack.

Several hours later and I have furnished myself my own glorious set of wings. The wind is blowing strong, and I can feel it pushing against me.

The climb up the tree is difficult. My wings clash against the branches, and only after careful maneuvering do I find myself on the branch of failure, times 1 and 3. The wind suddenly shifts and forces me off of the branch before I'm ready and I hit the ground quickly and forcefully.

Instead of a sense of defeat, I feel energized, despite the roaring pain coursing through my poor, battered body. When the wind hits my wings, I will fly.

I skip the higher branch.

I find a building. It's tall, but not too tall. Just tall enough.

I walk sideways up the stairwells, not wanting to damage my wings. The access hatch to the roof is locked. But the padlock is old and rusted. I remove my backpack wing apparatus, climb the ladder and shoulder the lock off, the door open.

The walk to the ledge is a blur and before I realize what's about to happen, I've got my wings on, standing on the ledge. Looking down, the ground is so far away that I already feel like I'm flying.

But this isn't right.

I turn and walk away. I reach the hatch and turn, breaking into a run toward the ledge again. A jump to the ledge and another into the air and I'm flying.

I catch the wind and suddenly I'm soaring above the ground. Free.

The wind shifts and I follow it--helpless. The inclusion of a steering mechanism seems like a brilliant idea. It's unfortunate that I didn't have it before now.

The wind changes again, throwing me against the side of another building, snapping the PVC pipe that stands in for the spine of my left wing. It falls limp by my side. The wind catches my good wing and sends me spiralling out of control to the ground below, the weak wing wrapping around me, locking my arms by my sides.

I don't feel the impact. I don't realize how broken I am until a small tear of blood rolls into my eye and I can't lift my hand to wipe it away. The sun casts a harsh, hideous beam on me. My breath is haggard and I'm certain a rib has punctured my lung.

The world becomes bright, ugly shapes, streaked red by my own blood. The haggardness of my breathing becomes a sickly gurgle as thick, red fluid pools in my lungs.

And that's the time that I learned to fly.