Watch Me Soar
There’s a hill on a road that’s named after my family.
It’s the refuse of a glacier that scraped across the continent thousands of years ago. In the fourth grade I learned the name of this landform, but I never remember it because I have another name for this hill.
I simply call it Mine.
And every year for as long as I can remember, I’ve gone to the top of my hill.
As a child, my mom would go with me and hold my hand. We’d pick blackberries on the hill and eat them until our fingers and lips turned bright purple and my belly ached. We’d watch hang gliders fly off the edge with their nylon wings, and hold our breath until they landed in the field below.
I remember one of my earliest visits to my hill. I ran through the tall grass and picked wild flowers. Mom warned me to stay close and not go far, but something called to me.
I let go of her hand and stepped to the grassy edge. I looked out at the entire world I knew. I could see my house, and my daddy’s farm. I could count the cows and see the soccer fields I played on.
As the wind blew my mother’s voice through my ponytail and fluttered my shirt, I closed my eyes and held out my arms and imagined myself soaring up over everything and flying away.
Now every year I go alone to the top of my hill. I stand at the edge, and I hold out my arms and close my eyes. And for a moment, just a moment, I soar up over everything and fly away.
I drive by my hill often, and every time I yearn to climb it and stand alone at the top of my childhood world. But even more, I yearn to leave my hill.
It’s time to really fly. Watch me soar.
Tags: About Me, Travel
Virago Vagabond