Dreams of Flying

 
I used to dream of flying.
 
Of swooping and swooshing. Of pushing through the air, getting higher and higher, and looking down at the people on the ground below me.
 
My most vivid dreams of flying are from when I was ten or eleven years old. I can still see the rough lawn of the schoolyard below me like it was a memory. Like I really did fly, once, or a hundred times, and I just forgot how.
 
But I know it was a dream.
 
I don't remember the details of the earlier dreams of flying, from when I was even younger, but I remember the dreaming.
 
Sometimes I wonder why I don't dream of flying any longer.
 
When my oldest son was a baby, he loved to be spun around and swung this way and that. One of his first words was, "More!" Always said twice, "More! More!" You could never swing and spin him enough. He always wanted more. My wife used to joke that now she understood the appeal of roller coasters. "It's just adults wanting to be swung around again, like they were when they were babies."
 
Is that where my dreams of flying came from? Did my father, or my uncles, swing me around and around? Is that why I always dreamed of swooshing and zooming, zipping first one direction, then another? Is that why, whenever I would dream I was flying at the ground, I always pulled up at the last instant, narrowly avoiding a crash?
 
I never had wings in my dreams. I just flew. Because I could.
 
But maybe there were hands?
 
Now I can't help but wonder: Did I pass on those dreams of flying to my children?
 
Is that where the dreams went?
 
-David
 
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