FLY

As a girl, I'd always dreamt that I could fly. I could soar - high above the world, in an eternal paradise of white, softness, and warmth. I was one with the migrating geese, who were seeking the sun, to escape the cold winter and the cold reality of the world around us. I would often lay in the itchy sneeze-inducing grass in my grandmother's back garden and trace the clouds and the stories that they told - magnificent tales of fantastical battles, of knights yielding their swords and dragons. Oh, how I longed to be in one of these tall tales.

At eight years old, I would dance in my yellow paint-stained sundress under the sun that stood firmly at high noon. A moment of pure inconceivable joy as I was the solstice on those afternoons in May, June, and July. The beaming joy of a toothless grin ice-lolly in hand and the illustrious tang of orange on the tongue. My mother laughed, the warmest of laughs as she tipped her head her straw hat hanging obstructing her eyes. The smell of barbeque lingered in the air, a sweet sticky smell of sausages, and burgers that would waft into one's nostrils. The portrait of a happy family.

At fourteen came adolescence and with it the changing of the leaves which fell to the ground in eye-catching shades of orange, red and brown. With it came first love and the first kiss under the old oak tree behind old lady Mapple's small cottage - where the permeant fragrance of apple pie seemed to reside. The leaves crunched under the tires of our bikes as we raced to the local corner shop, dodging reversing cars in a battle of wit, cat, and mouse on those pothole-filled concrete roads. Adrenaline coursed through our veins as the colorful sugary goodness of sherbet sat on our lips and with feet in the air we were giants, too large for our small sleeper town.

With sixteen came the mood swings. Rage simmering and boiling never subsiding. Like a volcano that could never be dormant, sitting awaiting its grand explosion. Teenage angst and rebellion brought this about, screaming, and crying. The dark days and the moon. The bitter reality that childhood had ended and real-life had begun. First jobs, money, and the ability to escape. Not in words. But, by buses, which were always cold and unforgiving. At this time, how I wished I could fly.

Then at eighteen, as I was ready to leave, how I longed to stay. Out in the world was dark and cold, unforgiving. The long lonely hours were something I'd never have expected, the rattling trees and the unforgiving harsh winds - if I could have done I would have flown out of that city, away from the lingering stares from the men at the bar, from the running home to an empty flat to escape the rowdy drunkards stumbling out of the local pub, their hands leering and grabbing. Etching on my skin, stories I never would usher to another soul.

Then twenty-seven, the beige and boring routine of nine to five. The monotonous cycle of white button-up blouses and half-priced cocktails on Fridays. The illusion of a woman, who is complete. But one who crumbled behind closed doors. The night sky her trial and jury and the moon, round and full the only one to witness her anguished screams. Her only solace.

Then again thirty was no different. Misery in the most pristine of places. Fluttering eyelids and dull blues surrounded, blurred in tear-stained eyes as I held your hand. The light faded ever so slowly as your already frail grip loosened. The machine beeped as your arm fell - white noise echoed far away in a cave of forgotten memories. Memories that could never be relived. Memories that would eventually fade to black.

How I wish I could fly with you again.