Abigail

She looked beautiful, free, standing on the bench. The breeze tangled her brown curls and the sun burst into a smile on her face. The open plain was almost a challenge for her grace.

"When I was younger, I used to think that if I stood on a chair and thought hard enough I would fly away," she told me.

I smiled, watching her from her blanket in the long grass. It was warm out, and she had on a white polka-dotted red dress. I had on a yellow and white button down. We were on a picnic.

The bench was part of a table, one of those stereotypical wooden ones. It looked odd there, in the field, with nothing but grass for miles in any direction. I asked her how she knew about this place.

"I used to come here sometimes. When I got older I stopped thinking I could fly, but I still liked the idea of it, and I love the wind in my face. So, I would come here, on summer days like this, and fly my kite and think about what it's like to be up so high."

She turned to face me then, and I caught my breath in the silhouette of her head. I waved her over, and held her hand.

***

I still think we can fly, but I don't want to be the kite. They fly high, but they are always one string away from being free. I want to soar unfettered, unchained, emancipated. Come soar with me?