True Story

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Photo by Leo Rivas on Unsplash

I flew when I was five. Playing witch, I’d climb onto the dining room table then jump as high and far as I could into a sea of pillows I’d placed on the floor. I was five, but understood enough about physics to know falling meant pain. It only took a few tries for me to touch the popcorn textured ceiling, but I didn’t revel in my power until I’d actually hit my head and the pillow sea had to extend to the living room to catch my fall. I’d cackle as I “flew”, imagining myself flying against the backdrop of a full moon in a night sky.

Imagination is power is one of the first things I learned. So, imagine my surprise when, one day, I jumped and kept going – beyond the dining room and past pillows.  I yanked my stick to the side in a desperate bid to avoid the disaster of crashing into the credenza loaded with my mother’s plants. Shocked when I turned in mid-air, I had no time to process what was happening as I sailed, head on, into the disaster of crashing into the fireplace and toppling my mother’s photos.

It took me a while to move. I banged my head and slammed my elbow pretty hard. But I was five, recovery was quick. When my head cleared I wondered if my bones were okay – and what else was possible.

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