Within Close Range: The Flying Nun

Sitting on the basement’s wooden stairs,
staring down at Jim and Dad below,
knee-deep in water that doesn’t belong,
I see Dad is mad. Really mad.
Which makes me want to do something.
Say something.
“I wish I was the Flying Nun,” I sigh,
as I watch my favorite Barbie float by,
“so I could fly all over this mess.”
I long to soar above the world
on starched, white wings.
like Sister Bertrille each week on TV.
I want to make things better.
I want to put things right,
then rise above my house and over the trees,
around the schoolyard and up the street.
With this said, Dad suddenly stops being mad.
Smiling at me and shaking his head,
the earthbound task of clean-up begins.

Within Close Range: Flying

I dream of flying –
like the Flying Nun –
Lifting off the edge of the bluff with the wind.
Rising quickly toward the fat, lazy clouds
hovering over the great lake,
I swoop and circle the nearby harbor
where scattered sailboats bob below
in the calm of the bay.
But the familiar forms, 
hidden back among the trees,
at the edge of the crumbling bluff,
soon call me to the dusky shore.
To home.
And the glowing, kitchen window.
And the figure of Mom in her pink, plaid apron.
Ever regal, ever busy, in her blue and yellow kitchen.
I hover there, in the cool lake air,
listening to the oh, so happy sounds
of pots and plates clinking and clanking.
I try to guess what’s cooking
by what’s wafting through the windows.
Until a strong breeze lifts the aroma and me
back out, over the vast, rippling water.
Past the sunken, old pier
where giant carp spawn year after year.
Past the rocky harbor walls
standing hard against the waves.
Until the house and the cottage and the beach disappear,
and I begin to really soar
over endless stretches of dark and deep.
Crestfallen to find my bed
and solid ground beneath me
when I wake.