A Short Story

Tom wanted to fly. He had a bit of hippie in him, back in the 70ies even when he was in the Navy. He had a surfboard and played in a band. And then who know's how it happened, if it was a fast or slow process, but his wife started falling down, he had rambunctious boys, and he got caught up in putting food on the table, and the 9-5, and somewhere in all of that, he forgot he actually had wings. They weren't really practical, afterall, he told himself, so he started living with his face down, locked inside the lines of maps and mazes and plans. He worked hard; and soaring, he told himself was a thing for another land, in a coming time. He walked about with the desire in him, but it grew smaller, with the passing days, and after so many flightless years.

There was a deeply guarded part of him that at times became so lost and covered, he'd misplace the key to it for months at a time. But it was always there, whether he knew it or not. He'd cover it or hide it or deny it, or make it out to be something else. But inside that place lived a boy who dreamed, full with a romantic, longing heart that could see, when the clouds were parted just right, that flying was the most glorious thing his soul could do.