Paper Planes

What is it like to fly, I wonder?

The rusted metal of the bridge groans and creaks as cars hurtle over it. Standing by one of the stout lamp posts fixed to the railing, I stare at the gritty concrete, not wanting to look over the edge. The wind howls and moans under the bridge. Pedestrians rush past me, yelling into their phones and cursing as they spill coffee over their starched white shirts. 

Everything is moving, pushing, and pulling against the tides of life. Except for me. 

My skin stretches and cracks over my knuckles as I clutch my purse. I fiddle with its zipper, yanking it this way and that. Oh, why won’t it open? I yank harder, the shiny teeth grating together, but it doesn’t budge. Enough. Just look. 

Taking a deep breath, I step forward and grip the frigid railing of the bridge. The faded blue paint flakes off beneath my touch. Another breath and I’m looking down at the abyss. 

Beneath me, two rivers clash, frothing and foaming as they join in one violent stream. One white, one brown, churning together to form a gray, muddy force of nature, thundering mercilessly down its course. 

What were you thinking when you stood on this bridge two months ago? Did your hands grasp the same coppery railing as mine do now? Did you brush dry paint flakes off your fingers? Did those threadbare magenta sketchers slip down your heels as you leaned over the edge?

I watch a branch fall into the river junction. It’s sucked down in milliseconds, never to be seen again. Like you.

Why did you fly off this bridge? Couldn’t you have stayed on the ground, safe with me? Why did you break free of the ranks of life, marching on toward an inexorable end that was written the day of our creation? 

I come here every week, but these questions always plague me like your ghost. No amount of gazing at the roaring river will answer them. Only deserting the army of life and joining you will. 

The two rivers beckon, pulling me like a fisherman reeling in his line. The wind dies down, and my feet rise. 

Teetering on the knife edge between life and death, the wind in my hair, eyes closed, it almost feels like flying. 

*****

You always wanted to fly. From the moment I first took you outside, swaddled in a hospital blanket against my chest, your hands stretched up to the sky, longing to grasp the white, fluffy blobs that floated high above. As if you were a philosopher pondering the meaning of life, your face would scrunch when the clouds eluded your soft, tiny hands. I always chuckled at that expression, and you’d become even more perplexed. Then, you would hiccup in happiness as I spun you around, your wispy, white hair fluttering. 

As soon as you learned to talk, you chittered away about the sky. About wings, wind, and airplanes. I couldn’t find a sheet of paper for weeks after you learned to make paper planes. I fell off the ladder once, trying to attach them to the ceiling of your pale pink room. 

Soon, you tired of airplanes and pivoted to stars, rockets, and moons. Every Halloween, you dressed up as an astronaut, a space helmet your basket, and the world your oyster as you hopped around from door to door. Again, I braved the ladder and stuck up glow-in-the-dark stars next to the airplanes. At night, curled up on your bed, you’d point your finger up and rattle off constellations, both those real and of your own making. 

When you got older, you stopped looking up and started looking down, down at the magenta sketchers I bought for you at the Salvation Army store. You never complained about how they didn’t match your black outfits, never complained about the empty fridge or the thin walls that couldn’t keep out the shouts next door. You never complained, but you never spoke either. Like the curtain between business and economy class, the door to your room remained closed. 

Then, you got interested in planes again. You began asking about ticket fares, airports, and passports. Even though your feet remained anchored to the ground, in your mind, you were soaring through the air to cities, colleges, and jobs far, far away. To a life that wasn’t your own. 

You always wanted to fly. If only I’d known where to.

*****

I open my eyes.

Cars and people are still whooshing past me. I am still standing on my toes. I stare down at the two rivers, washing over your body, lost somewhere in the murky depths. Your body is invisible, but I still see your glowing eyes, still hear your shy laugh, still feel your hand in mine. 

We were both conscripted to life, you and I. You deserted, and I think about joining you every time I come here. But I will finish out my time because your flight was meant to be solo. 

Slowly, I lower my heels so they touch the cracked concrete of the bridge. The zipper of my purse slides smoothly now as I pull out the paper airplane I made from a blue Post-it note on the bus ride here. It’s not as good as your planes, still hanging in your room. But I’ve gotten better since I make them every week. I’ll need to buy a new pack of Post-it notes soon. 

I hold the little plane over the railing and gently uncurl my hands. It dances and flitters in the breeze, lazily spiraling downwards until disappearing into the roar of the river. I imagine the ways your eyes would glitter if you were here beside me, watching this little plane swirl into the river. 

I close my purse, put one foot forward, and then the other, rejoining the stream of life. 

What is it like to fly, I wonder? Like a paper plane floating on the breeze?

You can tell me when we meet again.