Memories of Flying
Dan Leach

Mama waited on the porch—
wooden spoon and metal frown—
to watch us walk our bikes
up the dampened driveway
to the back of the garage.

If pre-pubescent knees
came equipped with tiny fiddles,
ours would strike the saddest notes
as we tip-toed through the doorway
to meet her in the kitchen.

And yet, after the worst of it,
when the spoon returned
to its drawer, and my parents
to their bedroom, I could sense
my brother smiling.

Through the darkness of our room,
in the bunk above my head,
he sizzled with silent joy
for our unrepentant sin.
And I returned that smile.

Breezes beyond our handlebars
had justified every lick—
how they fluttered through our t-shirts
and whipped our summer hair.
How they made us feel alive.

If pre-pubescent hearts
came equipped with tiny drums,
ours would slap a ragged anthem
as we fell asleep that night
to memories of flying.

Copyright 2015. All rights reserved.

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