On Joy and Fear and Flying

"You know," I tell myself, "I never see small birds flying."

I'm squinting into the sun, watching a hawk circle and drop with my head thrown back and my hands behind me, and my thoughts are winding. "I see them hopping through the grass sometimes, pecking at seeds, and every so often I'll see a group of them startle, but I never have to shade my eyes to watch them rising. They never seem to stretch out their wings."

Her voice cuts through my thoughts. "Mommy," she cries, "look at me! I'm flying!" 

Overhead, the sunlight flashes; the hawk is diving, but I turn around and look behind me.

Katherine is circling on her bike, pumping her legs up and down, faster and faster, weaving between all the concrete blocks in the parking lot, with the wind in her face and her helmet shining.

"Do you see me, Mommy? I'm flying!"

"Yes, yes," I cry, "I'm watching!"

She skids to a stop at the curb where I'm standing.

"Remember this summer when I was too scared to go fast?"

"Yes," I say, nodding.

"But did you just see how fast I was going?"

"You were really flying!"

"Oh Mommy, that was so much fun! I'm going to remember this moment --- forever!"

She laughs, and her laughter is high and clear. I smile at the sound. Then she pushes her foot off the curb and pedals out into sun, going faster again, and faster, and I tilt my head back up toward the sky.

I notice the hawk is rising.