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.