Flight is easy once you learn the trick. The trick is you have to believe against gravity. Not stop believing in it, not believe it can be conquered, you have to believe against it. It’s like making yourself sink in a swimming pool, in reverse, a subtle series of muscle shifts and positioning; it’s a particular exhale.
We flew along the beaches, Shauna and I. The salt in the air made us faster, the roar of the ocean drowned our cries of joy. If we got too daring, we’d fall on sand or water instead of rock or concrete. She used to soar, frightening the gulls and shedding her clothes. I drank the air and I drank the sight of her as free as anything has ever been.
At sunsets she would fly far over the water, a black spot against the inferno of twilight. She used to say, “Someday I won’t come back.”
Flying is actually work. It’s fun work, but it takes effort. “You have to come back,” I’d say, “you can’t fly forever.”
“You watch. I will.”
The day she left I knew. She kissed me on the lips before she went. She sank with the sun.
