So I’m lying in bed the other night indulging in my usual far-away fantasy thoughts when Plosh brings up politics. I don’t remember what, but it was something particularly gory and nasty and mean. Ruined the mood right there.
I tell him, y’know, I had a pretty good fantasy going until you brought that up.
Naturally, he wanted in. What fantasy?
Well, see, I like to think about having wings. I reviewed a book a while back called The Year of Our War about a guy who was the only one in his world whose wings worked the way G-d intended. Or at least, the way the god in that world intended.
Ever since then, I’ve been trying to figure out the mechanics of how that would work. I calculate what I’d need in terms of wingspan — I’m skinny in this fantasy, which helps — to achieve lift. I also read somewhere that birds spend a lot of time preening to remove bugs and dirt and reposition their long flight feathers.
There are nights when I can’t sleep and I lay awake imagining all this useless stuff about flying, until my back develops weird aches from overusing my wing muscles and I feel the need to fluff my feathers.
Unless I also grow tail feathers, I’d have to wear a narrow skirt while flying to catch the wind, which helps both with steering and braking to land. I’d look good flying around in a pencil skirt, maybe a dark maroon to contrast with the earthy browns and beiges of my natural plumage.
I swear I can sometimes feel air currents and eddies under my wings, that I can ride the thermals as the heat rises off the ground at midday, and if I stretch and then contract my flight feathers just so, I can do a belly-roll to impress all you landlubbers.
When I finally drift off to sleep, I have the same dreams as any Mommy; usually about five zillion horrible ways for my children to disappear or die. I wake up panicking until I realize the pounding against my ribs is from two tiny pajama’d feet kicking against me.
And then I wonder what my house would look like from the air.