More Than One Way to Soar
“This new world is too full of flash,” she used to tell me. “All fake and fast. No appreciation for the old arts. No one knows how to let things choose there own path anymore.”
These were the things she would tell me as we sat near the fire and she squinted at her stitching. No matter how often dad would offer wire the house for her, she’d insist that her work was always better when made by firelight.
“Three strands, now that’s very important dear.” Shining threads through a silver needle flashing in the fire.
“And the skin must be cured for a full moon’s cycle, from full to full.” Moonlight through gossamer skins drying on the porch.
“The twigs must be given. Nothing can fly with the weight of resentment holding it down, remember that.” Hours spent under the willow tree waiting for a branch to fall and then trying to figure out if it wanted to be used. I never could seem to get it.
This was her way, brought over through the rift.
But as much as I loved my Gram, I was from this world. Unicorn tail strands, and willow branches never called to me. I just couldn’t make it work So were my summers. Spent on her porch or by her at the fireside, until it was time to go back to the city for school.
I remember wandering the aisles of junk while dad and his friend rambled on about tools and scrape. I wasn’t really looking at anything, just kind of staring off into space. Then the light caught this coil of wire. I don’t know why but I reached for it, and the metal seemed to hum.
“Hey dad, can I get some of this?’
He raised an eyebrow, “What are you going to use it for?”
I shrugged.
“Alright, whatever hun. Hey George! How much for this wire here?”
A few weeks later I was walking home from school and a flutter of color caught my eye. Dancing in a dirt devil was a bright red plastic bag. The wind died down and the bag landed in front of me. I pocketed it. By the end of the month I had a few dozen. They all seemed to just find me, and then I couldn’t leave them behind.
Item after item seemed to seek me out, doing anything to catch my attention. I nearly broke my ankle on a persistent belt at my favorite thrift shop. I tucked the odd and ends away in a box in my closet. Once in awhile the box seemed to call to me, and I would take the things out and lay them out on the floor; but the time never seemed right and back they would go. I wasn’t really sure what I was waiting for.
The school year ended and it was time to return to my grandmothers. Dad only gave me his usual raised eyebrow when I loaded the box into the back of the car with the rest of my stuff.
In the light of Grandma’s hearth the wire danced and writhed to shape beneath my hands. Scraps of string and thread, old twist ties and plastic bag handles bound the joints. Using her old iron, I fused the bits of plastics into membrane and embedded it with bits of glass and colored pop tabs. A pair of belts made arm straps and an old fanny pack strap held it across my chest.
I held my work up to the window and let the moonlight shimmer through the wings. Grandma’s hand rested on my shoulder as she looked over my work. “Make’s sense. I never expected my world to call to you like it does me. I suppose there are those looking for their wings back in yours. You’ll be busy this winter.”
“Who do these go to then?”
“Silly. How can you make others fly without first getting yourself up?”
We climbed out the upstairs window onto the gentle slope of the porch. Grandma helped me slip into the harness and grinned as I jumped off the edge of the roof and into the night.
