Wednesday, July 29, 2009


I am in my old bedroom at the old house. The bunk bed I once shared with my cousins at their home in the country is now in that room. It is up against the only window in the room, the window of the far, outer wall, the window looking into the room. My bed, which would have been on the opposite wall to where the bunk is, had it been in the room, is not.

I am on the top bunk. I am gliding in slow motion from the bed to the wall straight ahead, to the wall on the left to the wall on the right, using each surface to propel myself with greater force to the next surface, building momentum as I glide until I am flying around the room. I pause periodically on the ceiling, before I descend slowly back to the top of the bed.

My mother enters the room. She watches me soar in slow motion above her head, from the top of the bunk to the surfaces of the walls and ceiling and back. She asks me what I am doing. I tell I am flying. She says she is not afraid that I can do it, but asks me how I am able to. I tell her it is because I believe in faeries and can do whatever I want. She watches me for a while.