11051 Penrose - She Knew That She Could Fly

.3:33 pm

The boy who boarded his goats on our land had already come and gone and left us a half gallon bottle of warm goat's milk on our porch. Today was my day so I got out the cheese cloth and the funnel and strained the milk while my sister got out some bowls and filled them with the wierd mix of Cheerios and corn flakes that momma was always making when she consolidated the half-empty cereal boxes. That's what momma called it. She said, "I'm consolidating." And I thought that had something to do with trains so I didn't say nothing but looked at my bowl funny waiting for a railroad spike to come floating to the surface. My sister stared at me and called me a slobdaka. She said, "don't you know railroad spikes don't float?" And I never could figure out how she knew what I was thinking. But that's the way it's always been. People always seem to think they know what I'm thinking. They'll get it right about once out of four but they can go stuff themselves like a turkey as far as I think. Sushi that.

That day I wasn't thinking about railroad spikes in my cereal bowl, no. I was thinking about them dogs' tails gettin' chopped off the day before. The reason I was thinking about that was cause when I went out to get the goats milk off the back porch I saw the dried blood stains right there and I could smell the hot burning when they burned them poor pups tails after they chopped em. That's what I was thinking about.

She sat there staring at me and I could hear her thinking what a slobdoka I was. Like I'm gonna care? I'm the elder one, I think to myself. I'm the one that momma and daddy chose out to break the truth to.

They waited that night until my sister gone to bed and I was laying there in the top bunk at nine years old reading for the first time in my life a book of philosophy. It was "Jonathan Livingston Seagull" and I liked it cause it made me feel real. And I wasn't exactly sure what that meant but I liked it a lot anyways. And now almost forty years later I can still tell you how that book started. See. It went like this:

"It was morning and the new sun sparkled gold across the ripples of a gentle sea."

Ten years later, some jackass'd come along and tell me that was poetic prose and I'd just look at him and not say nothing. That jackass - he'd just as soon walk on down the street with two legs sticking out under him and I'd watch him go while I felt the two wings unfolding out of my back and I'd lift up and fly a bit and I'd settle down somewhere just about as far as that jackass on two legs had got.

I'm at the part where Jonathan thinks he's in heaven and the elder gull Chang or whatever starts telling him that he can be anywhere or anywhat he wants to be and then he disappears and then he and Jonathan are standing under twin moons on a very different beach and the sky has definitely changed. And then I got it. Nine years old, I closed my eyes and held that book and knew clearly that this wasn't going to be an ordinary life.

Right then the door opened and the light shot fast across the room and my momma stuck her head in and whispered if I was awake. She said, "Boy, come on out here. Your father and I want to talk to you."

They sat me down in the living room and let me have the big chair. I knew this was gonna be big because they let me have the big chair. That was the chair that they hid the saddle behind. It went like this: The Christmas before - almost a year now - there'd been a little wrapped box under the tree with my sister's name on it and when she got to opening it there was a note inside that said, "look behind the chair." And behind that chair, the big one, the one I was sitting in this night after reading about Jonathan Gull flashing across the universe just by what his mind could do - anyways - so. My sister that Christmas morning looked behind the big chair and there was the saddle - crisp and shiny and new and it was just her size and off to the side there was a bridle and reins and all the gear and taped right to the top of the horn was another note. And my sister's eyes got huge and you could see all of the sudden she was more then just a girl. She was like Jonathan Gull and she knew that she could fly. Out there in the barn in the backyard that Christmas morning my little sister with her long, straight brown hair and her big wide eyes and freckles like you couldn't believe she walked into the barn and there was a pony that looked right back at her. He was all white with big brown and black spots and he gave my sister the same look she gave him. And you knew right then they were gonna love each other. Right then she said, "His name is Wildfire."

I'm sitting in the big chair and my momma and daddy are sitting next to each other on the couch. They're looking at me while I shift around. I'm thinking about the short wingspan of a falcon and air rushing through me and screaming, howling pups with their tails cut off and no one ever told me why their tails had to come off other than saying, "that's how they're supposed to look." Yeah, I'm thinking your face would look better without your face being there and then my momma says, "It's time you know there ain't no Santa Claus."

Jesus Fucking Christ. I'm nine years old and Santa Claus has just been verbally crucified by my own momma and daddy. My momma looked like she wanted to put her hand on my knee or my shoulder and maybe help - but she didn't. And I'm refusing to hear this. I already heard them arguing and yelling at each other the past week and I know they're broke. I know Santa Claus doesn't have any credit left at the department store.

Every nine year old already knows there ain't no Santa Claus. But not every nine year old has his parents drag the jolly fat man into the living room and then stick the man with a knife while their boy watches. They said, "don't tell your sister - please - don't." And I never did. Nope. Never. And she figured it out for herself.