I Want to Fly
The river ripples and crests against the supports on the bridge. It’s the only thing holding me steady in this moment.
“I want…” I can’t finish the thought, either in my head or out loud. There’s no one here to listen.
The wind rushes through my hair and up my spine. A tornado blows through my thoughts. They mix, muddle, murk up. They layer one on top of the other. It’s suffocating.
My knuckles turn white as my grip tightens on the railing separating me from empty space and the muddy Mississippi. I’m thinking of your right now. I know they’ll wonder what went through my mind--all these moments locked together. Links in a chain.
“I want…”
I know what I want, but the words won’t come out.
I want to jump.
To fly.
I want to feel that rush. The one in the summer, when you and I ride in the car on our way to our favorite places. The one where the windows are down and we’re flying down the interstate. Where the wind rushes through your hair and drowns out my life. The rush of wind moving so fast that you can’t catch your breath.
When the adrenaline pulses and my arms shake from excitement--from fear--I consider letting go. This one final flight will make me a bird. The night is warm, but the finality of this last adventure makes my veins run with ice. I think of winter. I think of cardinals. How pretty they are in the snow.
But if I fly, if I let myself go, I’ll be the spring songbird trapped in the snow. Songbirds don’t survive the harsh winter.
I think of you, one more time. I know what I want.
I want to fly.