Flight

Flight

Aileen Lu

I used to rest my chin on top of my teddy bear’s head.

Back then, life moved slow, like sweet molasses

and I saw everything with indifference, through thick glasses.

I was told that life was a fragile thing, like a bluebird’s egg,

a warm soft soul whose little shell splintered into snowflakes.

I thought them funny and a bit dumb,

because the only way for the little bluebird to fly

was for its pale oval shell to shatter and die.

 

I used to sit on the swings and turn myself upside down

just as I hit the very top and almost flew around the bar.

My heart would jump to my throat and my ears would pound,

and even though I screamed, I could not hear the sound.

My mother scolded me afterwards,

and told me not to do such stupid things.

I nodded and she patted me on the head,

but I could not shake the feeling that fright

had somehow changed my life.

 

I used to get a rush, exhilarated by

the suspense at the top, of that split second where time

slowed to a near halt, motivated me to innovate,

into the air like a bird that threw itself out of its egg that

splintered into bits of shell, there was no suspense,

no descent to safety, just tears and scraped knees 

That pushed me up onto wobbling legs,

and my eyes were wide, my mind plagued

so shaken by the fear of failure I forgot how to walk

 

I used to swing up and down with confidence,

But the world beyond the swings didn’t supported me

with chains, but I no longer trusted those either due to nightmares

of the seemingly strong iron snapping and dropping me.

And like Humpty Dumpty, my splintered confidence

couldn’t be put together again, and I had nothing to return to.

I spent days in the library amongst the dust and books,

that smelled of must. And though my body stood

in those narrow aisles, my mind drifted elsewhere.

 

I used to rest my chin on top of my teddy bear’s head.

Back then, life moved slow, like sweet molasses

and I saw everything with indifference, through thick glasses.

I was told that life was a fragile thing, like a bluebird’s egg,

a warm soft soul whose little shell splintered into snowflakes.

Thrown into a world of unfamiliarity, it seeks to go back

to its safe shelter that is but a pile of dust. 

The bluebird flew in despair, and lived in fear; it’s song a cry

for a semblance of the warmth of peace and safety as I did