flying by carol torian

I jumped from a third story window when I was six.

My older brother had pinned a green and yellow stripped bed sheet to my t-shirt and

convinced me that I could fly.

“Spread your wings!” he yelled. “Spread your wings!”

When I hit the concrete below, I heard my brother laugh,

then I heard my mother’s screams.

An ambulance came for me with red flashing

lights and loud sirens.

I was swiftly, yet carefully, lifted inside, floating in

the stream of my mother’s tears.

I woke in the hospital with nurses whispering

about miracles, and my mother praying at the foot of my bed.

I opened my eyes slowly and tried to focus on her tight black curls.

I tried to tell her that I would be all right.

That I’d heard her singing spirituals in the middle of the night.

That “Wade in the Water” had comforted me.

But my lids were heavy and my voice was weak, and I did not have the strength to

struggle against the cast that covered my body.

I was in the hospital for two months.

They put bars on the windows after my fall.

My brother was sent to live with our uncle in Chicago.

Lawyers came around like wolves and encouraged my mother to sue.

They talked of million-dollar settlements and fancy cars and mansions.

While roaches as long as Cadillacs scaled the back of our plaid secondhand couch.

“You deserve justice,” one of the lawyers said.

But my mother was afraid that we would lose our housing.

“Where me and my daugther gonna live when they put us out?” she asked. “With you?”

The lawyers frowned and came to their feet like dominos, spilling

the cold glasses of fresh lemonade

that my mother had offered,

and they had politely pretended to drink.

The oldest lawyer handed my mother a crisp white business card and patted her on the back. “Call me if you change your mind, Miss Ginger,” he said, looking past her at the door. “We can help you.”

I watched from the window as they hurried to the car.

I smiled and waved at the youngest lawyer when he turned to

glance back at our building but he did not seem to see me at all.

“Get away from that window, girl!” my mother shouted behind me. “Ain’t you learn nothing when you took that fall?”

I thought for a moment and realized that I had learned something.

That little black girls can take flight, and though they might land hard and bruise,

they will not break.

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Copyright © 2014 by Carol Torian