what we were meant for …

A memory:


I am just a girl, with one skinny arm thrust from the car window.  The hand cupped to cut the air:  lifting.

I am too young, then, to have learned Bernoulli’s Principle, or to have heard the word “airfoil.”  But still, my palm curls into the wind, without needing an explanation.

Without knowing why.


Then, too, there are my shoulder blades — the bones folded tight beneath the skin, in a shape that could only suggest what they might have been.

Or might still be.


And lastly, there is this:

the small, broken-winged bird still alive in my chest, beating against the bars of my ribcage.

Scuffling and fluttering to get free.


And so, at sunset, I go walking in the fields. (I have dreamed the moment so many times, it no longer seems strange.)  In the center of the field I stand perfectly still, looking up, into clear blue air.

I feel my cupped hands lifting …
the bones in my shoulders shifting …
the bird in my chest hammering
against my sternum.

And I wait …
still I wait …


…to rise. ❤


  1. I absolutely love your use of imagery here. Waiting… … … The bird in my chest is definitely hammering to get out, but if I did open its cage, it wouldn’t know where to fly to or how.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. It’s such a beautiful piece of writing, though I’m not really sure what it’s about. I understand it as either rising from extreme difficulties OR rising to ones potential and unique place in this world. Anyhow, I find it lovely that you leave room for interpretation.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you, Heidi … And it sounds funny, but I sort-of love that you weren’t exactly sure what to make of this one. I wondered whether this one was too obvious, actually, and tried very hard to keep things a little watery and to leave room for your own thoughts and discoveries.

      And I like *your* discoveries … A lot! 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

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