Memories of flying

I was driving the other day and something popped into my head — a song, or a childhood memory, or a question about a hazy memory — and I thought, “I should give Dad a call.”

That’s the first time that’s happened since my dad died back in January.

I’ve thought about him plenty, of course, actively and intentionally but also in that unpredictable way that thoughts and memories just drift into your head. This was the first time, though, that I’d forgotten, if only for a moment, that he is gone.

Some things, especially things that have existed since before I can remember, feel like they’ll go on existing forever.

I have small notepads lying all around the house, little spiral notebooks or Field Notes, a couple of them slipped into hand-sewn leather covers, and I usually carry one of these in my back pocket to capture ideas when they pop up. I write these transient thoughts into whichever pad is closest, then I forget about them for weeks or months. It’s an imperfect system, and it’s perfect for me.

I picked up one of these pads from my bedside table and flipped through it this morning. Alongside notes I’d taken on a call with Social Security to discuss applying for survivor benefits for my stepmom, I found these lines I’d written the week my dad died:

I worry about things I’ve forgotten and things I’ve never known, and about how, now, there is no one left who can tell me. Was I a happy child? Why do I remember crying more than I remember laughing? What did you say when I told you I could fly?

Yes, I could fly when I was very young, maybe three years old, before I was old enough to know that this was impossible. I remember it clearly: I would stand at the end of our dark hallway, begin to run, then pull my knees up to my chest and wrap them with my arms, and in this fetal-toddler position, I would soar down the narrow hallway through the darkness. It was effortless, it was ecstatic. I was free. Free of fear, free of cares, free from the crush of gravity and of reality.

I could fly when I was very young.

And now there’s no one left who can tell you if it’s true.