That I May Fly

Three or four years old. Small and explosive. The wind cuts around my face as I run into a jungle of raspberries. I reach for the darkest, ripest berries and gobble them up in handfuls.

Leaves of deep and hidden green. So green it must be some other color. Red and purple. The palest pink of the new budding berries. The deep dark of earth underfoot. The color of coffee in the filter. The color of God’s hands. I smell the Earth and know it is home.

The swish of the sleeves of my windbreaker against my body hurts my ears. My favorite article of clothing despite the painful noise: Blue with broad red and yellow stripes across the chest. Hands up as I run around the yard to keep the noise down. I’m told I’m a plane.

“I’m a plane.”

I don’t like dirt on my fingers but I endure it to investigate the faery colony of Roly-Poly Bugs, Worms, and Ants. My eyes widen. I take it all in. Flipping over a wet stump with my tiny frame; the horizon is filled from end to end with rust-colored pine needles and this city of bugs.

A door slams on a car in the driveway. Heavy keys clanging. A jingling and stomping as giant steps echo between the houses. My dad is home from work. He opens the back gate and catches me as I run to him. 

One day I will climb the broad tree above us. One day it will be hit by lightning and split in half. One day it will rot to the ground. Today it arches over us cathedral-like. 

Mom’s inside with Sean and dinner is coming up. This is my last moment of serenity for 35 years.

Holidays come and go. When I’m older I see pictures of myself at this age with the wildest eyes and smiles. Now I think to myself, 

“Who is that?”

By preschool the pictures make more sense to me. An uncomfortable adult smile on a tiny head with deep sunken eyes.

This is a warning from here on out: Don’t go looking for blame. So and So did such and such to me. Worse things happen to better people all the time.

Have you ever been in a stampeding crowd? Panicked eyes dart straight ahead— never down as they climb over the bodies of those they claim to love to fight for the slimmest chance of escaping whatever doom they think is coming.

That’s us. That’s you. You were born into a stampede with your mom and dad just as much on the run as you. Your poor mother only had enough time to lay down to shoot you out and then get back up and run. 

Humanity has been chasing itself around the globe since the moment we left our first mitochondrial mother’s womb. We are going to get bumped around and lose our tempers as we’re chased from home to home following our tails. 

We’re going to embarrass ourselves. We’re going to make mistakes. We’re going to do the unforgivable. Seldom will we do the unredeemable though. I have yet to see anyone who cannot be redeemed. 

I love every one of you who risked the chance to make mistakes with me. I thank anyone who picked me up in that stampede and held me above your head, even if for a moment. To take the time out of your life to share your talents, your beautiful stories, and your delightful jokes—how lucky was I?

I love you, Sean. I love you, Mike. I love you, Pam. No parent wants to outlive their child. No sibling wants to see their brother or sister go off to war. What was sent away was not what came back. I returned as a Changeling. Just like the old stories.  I made you sit with me while I was reborn from it over and over, and you did. I have been abandoned by some of the finest people in the world, so if I ever complain—know that I know you never really left. At worst, you struggled to learn how to be there.

I’ve heard about your teachers. You did quite well, and the stampede isn’t done yet.

I am Jenny Durden, but it’s because of all the hard work people put into Stevie Saile. That thing that became Staff Sergeant Steven Saile and Master Sergeant Steven Saile and Jenny Durden. The thing that is still all those things.