I can’t remember when I stopped dreaming about flying.
This recurred often, once a month or more.
I would be standing on the terrace outside my back door.
In my hand I held a paperclip, standard sized, silver,
attached to a long piece of white string.
Just how long, I never knew, because I could never
look down to see if, perhaps the string were attached
to the ground, my big toe, or I don’t know.
I would pull back on the paperclip and string, like a joystick,
and up I would go, transitioning immediately from a standing position,
to a head pointed forward, horizontal one.
Off I would soar, around the large False Wiliwili tree,
through the Monkeypod, the Lychee, and the Mango trees,
zooming over my neighbors’ homes and yards.
Then, smoothly touching down on the back terrace,
my dream ended.
It was always the same.
But I don’t dream about being a stripped down flying machine anymore.
Maybe it’s an age thing, that I grew too old to believe I could fly anymore.