Flying Hands
The intentional first fold
Of a fresh sheet of paper
Matching corner to corner, edge to edge.
Your meticulously manicured thumbnail
Sliding back and forth along the fold,
Committing the crease to memory on the page.
Each subsequent fold
Pre-planned like chess moves
Precise and weighted
With the knowledge of cause and effect
For the wings you were building,
Designed for speed, or distance…
Or loop-de-loops!
Each had its own secret set of blueprints
That you, the master paper aviator,
Performed like a magic show
Constructing an actual plane
Before our very eyes
On an ordinary Formica kitchen table…
The anticipation building
As we wait to see how THIS one flies!
You sit down at the piano
Taking one deep slow breath
Then suddenly, your hands are flying
Up and down the keyboard.
You only have a couple of songs
Memorized in your repertoire.
Both ragtime.
This one is my favorite
Because your fingers dance across
The full length of the keys
Twirling and twisting
And jumping over each other
Like a finger puppet version
Of dancing the Lindy,
Making their own music with each step.
I can still feel my wide-eyed admiration
For this hidden superpower
You only brought out for display once in a while,
Making it feel like a special occasion
To witness you lost in the music…
Black and white blurred to grey.
There are pieces of music that
Our fingers remember how to play -
If we don’t let our heads get in the way.
Doll Dance was that for you…
And I got a backstage view
Of your hands flying free, beautifully.
I feel the wind on my face
And your arms encircling me
As you stand behind me,
Your hands on my hands,
Guiding…
Providing the strength
My small arms lacked,
As together, we let out more slack
Releasing yards of string
Against the playful tug
Of the colorful kite above.
Then reeling it back in urgently
As the wind suddenly paused
As if to take another breath
And our Kite began to sink.
On my tippy-toes now
With my hands held high
Along for the ride
As your hands move like a conductor
Directing our private wind symphony
In flowing figure eights above my head
Beyond which the kite dips and dives
Against the blue sky…
The image of which is now forever framed
By my father’s hands on each side.
