Learning to Soar

Lisa H.

When I was a little girl, I had an experience that changed my life forever. It was during that time of year when the trees seemed to drip colour, their branches overflowing with shimmering golden leaves. I was sitting in my backyard and rolling a ball around, minding my own business, when a skein of geese flew overhead. Only their silhouettes were visible against the autumn sun. I could see their arched necks, the delicate plane of the tail, each black wingtip beating in perfect unison. They were the picture of symmetry and grace. As their song rang out through the crisp fall air, achingly pure, I felt as a dust speck must feel before the universe - small and insignificant. My heart was bursting with the grandeur of that golden autumn day.

That’s when it happened.

“HAWNK!”

I jumped in surprise and nearly dropped the rake onto my foot. A powerful, grating sound had just blared out of the blue, and was growing steadily louder. Either someone had leaned on his car horn by mistake, or an owl was killing a very large cat.

“HAWNK!”

The sound rang out again, coupled with the flapping of wing beats. I looked once more to the skies and gasped in fright as a goose skimmed the top of my head, one wing lurching crazily, and made a crash landing in a pile of raked leaves. Without a moment’s pause, as though it had intended to do that all along, it waddled out and honked at me, thanking me for the soft landing.

I had never seen a wild bird so close before. The goose looked young, perhaps a few months old, obviously born too late in the season. One of his wings was hanging awkwardly at his side, the feathers drooping limply with exhaustion. He didn’t move away from me, even when I took a step closer.

Slowly, I reached out to the goose.

Time seemed to stand still. I could feel my heart beating somewhere up in my throat, my skin tingling with apprehension.

The goose contemplated my hand for only a second before resting his beak in my fingers. I could feel his cool, hard skin, lingering softly at my fingertips. Then he broke into a furious waddle, screeching his ear splitting cry, and began to churn his wings. As the bird’s feet left the ground, I waved goodbye and cried out, “See you next fall, Goose!”

I smiled as he brushed the sky with his wingtips and flew out of sight.

Every autumn, I waited for my bird to return. I camped out in the backyard with my ball and a pile of leaves, just in case my goose hadn’t learned to land properly yet. But he never came back. Often, I would see a group flying overhead, but I couldn’t pick my special friend out of the crowd. I felt abandoned and eventually, stupid. As if I would recognize my friend! As if a goose was really so special. As if anything was really so special.

Soon, I stopped waiting for him. My memories of the goose lost their power.

I was becoming numb.

* * *

THWACK!

My dad smacked his hand down on the morning paper.

“Just look at this!” he exclaimed in disgust. “Man breaks into High School, Guns Down Twenty. Is school not safe for you kids anymore?”

I frowned into my corn flakes. I didn’t want to think about school right now. Grade Nine still had a long ways to go before completion, and I had at least another three years to get through after that.

“And look, Daphne,” my dad continued, now rustling the papers under my nose, “Suspected Plot to Attack Nation’s Capital. There are psychos all over the place.”

“George,” my mother hissed warningly, setting a plate of toast down on the table.

My father raised his eyebrows, the picture of indignation. “What?” he exclaimed. “What did I say? It’s not my fault the world is falling to pieces, Marjorie. I tell you, there’s just nowhere to go anymore. Canada used to be The Haven, the Friend, a shining beacon for the lost and disillusioned souls of our world. Freed slaves came here during the war. Runaways came here during the revolution. Now look what we’ve got! Weirdoes, murderers, and more weirdoes! It’s just not worth it anymore.”

I tried to block out my father’s words, but I couldn’t get his last statement out of my head: It’s just not worth it. Did he mean it’s not worth it to fight back, or to live at all? Both, I guessed.

It’s just not worth it.

As I walked to school, I raised my eyes to the dull iron sky. It used to seem so mighty, so majestic. Now it just seemed heavy. I shut my eyes against the pressure, but the feeling wouldn’t go away: the world felt like it was closing in on me. There were no signs of birds, no feathers on the ground, no icky brown droppings that stuck to your shoe like gum sausages. Nothing. I had given up actively looking for these things long ago, but their absence still struck me from time to time. Nothing ever changed. It’s just not worth it.

In school, the teacher droned on and on about current events. I could feel myself going into a stupor. All around us, there was pain and hate and suffering. Children were starving in Africa. Children were growing fat in America. There weren’t enough children in Canada. It was all so wrong.

“Why doesn’t our school help our more?” I wanted to know. “There are so many causes to support, why can’t we take them all on?”

“You can’t help everyone,” was my teacher’s reply.

So what was the point of learning all this, then? I felt like screaming. I wanted to sink into the floor, vaporize into the air, release this pressure from behind my eyes. But there was no escape.

It’s just not worth it.

* * *

I did my homework in record time, probably because I wasn’t paying attention to my answers. Really, there was no reason to try. If I had learned one thing today, it was that one person could not make a difference.

As I headed into the backyard to rake up the leaves, I could feel my spirits sinking into my toes. The rake handle felt cold and hard in my hand, the leaves rustling and crackling like dead skin, shriveled up and dry.

It’s just not worth it.

A gentle honking floated down from the heavens. Above me, a skein of geese was heading south. I had seen this sight hundreds of times before, but nevertheless, the hint of a smile touched the corners of my lips. Then there was another sound, louder and wilder than the rest.

“SQUONK!”

I whipped my head around in surprise. The powerful, throaty noise was still echoing through the air, uncultured and unbridled. Now it was joined by a second voice.

“SQUONK!”

“SQUONK!”

Two geese half dove, half fell out of the sky and swooped down next to my feet. Once I had gotten over the shock, my eyes raked over their figures, searching hungrily for a resemblance - but there was none. Neither of these two stragglers was my gird, even though they had funny cries and sweet, comical faces.

But even as they staggered around, I felt no less joy watching these exquisite creatures than I had watching my old goose. The realization washed over me like a hot bath, and at once my shoulders felt lighter. These birds, although different from my old one, were still special, and I could make new memories with them.

Could something as simple as geese really spread joy to someone’s life? The thought was startling. If a goose could do that, then why couldn’t a human change the world? Why couldn’t I bring joy to someone else? The answer was obvious: it was possible.

The smile stretched wider across my face.

“Hey, birdies,” I whispered. “It’s me, Daphne. Do you know me?”

The geese cocked their heads, stretched out their beaks, and waddled closer. Hardly daring to believe it, I raised my hand to their warm bodies and waited.

Just before the magical moment when beak and hand would touch, I felt the stirrings of true happiness, and my love of nature rekindled. So it is worth it, I thought to myself, and in my heart I knew it to be true.

I leaned against my rake and watched as the geese winged off through the blue, their streamlined bodies looking sleek and grand against the endless vault of sky. Their voices drifted out on the air behind them, SQUONK and SQWUNK, and at once good feelings rushed up inside me, like a bird ascending towards the sun.

Oh, boy, it is worth it.

Remember the Love

Lisa H.

The room is dim and quiet, just as it had been the day before. Someone has closed the blinds partway, but the early morning sunlight still filters through, bathing

the room in a soft golden glow. Beside me is a bed with worn, industrial grey sheets that scratch at my arms when I lean over to check on the patient’s breathing. I don’t know how he stands this place.

He isn’t awake yet, but his breathing sounds so peaceful that I can’t bear to disturb him. Instead, I move my chair closer to the window, towards the light, and crack open my binder. I page through to my homework assignment and read the question at the top of the page: Describe your ultimate dream.

This is pathetic, really. What can this assignment possibly teach me?

I know what my friends will write. I want to be a millionaire. I want to party on a yacht. I want to buy an island in the Caribbean. But it’s all pointless. None of these things will ever happen. Of course, my dream is silly, too. I want to turn back time.

Still, the paper is due tomorrow, so I lean back in my chair and try to think of a good answer.

I shut my eyes, squinting in concentration, but my mind is filled with blackness. A cool breeze wafts into the room, wreathing my face with the scent of pine trees and water. That’s strange. I don’t remember leaving the window open.

Suddenly, a brilliant ray of light pierces the edges of my mind, and I open my eyes to see a still lake, stretching out as far as the eye can see like a smooth sheet of glass. The air is heavy with moisture; it leaves droplets on my skin that tingle in the brisk spring air. In front of me, sitting serenely at the bow of my canoe, is a man.

“Granddad?” I say nervously. “Granddad, I really do love fishing with you, but...are we lost?”

My grandfather’s face creases into a smile. “Relax, Clarice!” he chuckles. His voice is deep and rich, like the thrumming of a kingfisher’s wings. “I know this lake like the back of my hand. We can let the current carry us home most of the way. Don’t worry, darling, I’ll guide us there.”

I nod and immediately my shoulders unite themselves from their knot. Of course, my grandfather knows this lake; he has a knack for landmarks, for the patterns of stars, for all the things I can never remember. We settle back in the boat, just Granddad and I, as the gentle thrill of a songbird carries out across the still, golden waters and the early morning mist, sending us on our way home.

But the memory holds no more meaning for me. The scenery is melding and shifting, changing before my mind’s eye.

Now we are standing beside a group of horses. Their bodies smell of carrots and musty straw, and beside each horse stands a tourist. They have been here before, I can tell; they have anticipation written all over their shining faces.

The woman at the head of the herd motions to me.

“The trial ride’s about to start!” she calls. “Get on your horses, everyone!”

Granddad shifts awkwardly beside me. He cannot mount his ride on his own, but I am strong enough for both of us, and I boost him into the saddle before springing up onto my own horse. The instructor waves her hand, and the group surges forward like a wave though the sea of prairie grass. I can feel the weak October sun on my skin and the pounding of my horse’s hooves beneath me, eating up the ground with bold, powerful strides.

After some time, the group slows down. My grandfather leans towards me.

“What a great idea this was, Clarice!” he says. He pats the warm neck of his horse. “Don’t forget to tell your horse how good he is, sweetheart!”

I clap my hand to my face, laughing shamefacedly. Honestly, I can be such a pea brain!

“Granddad,” I admit, “You won’t believe this, but I can’t remember my horse’s name.”

My grandfather laughs good-naturedly and reaches out to stroke my horse’s ears. “That’s all right, Clarice,” he says. “I can remember for both of us! Your horse’s name is Stormy. And this here is Darkie,” he adds, smoothing out Darkie’s mane with firm, smooth strokes of his hand.

Darkie whinnies as if in agreement, and we giggle and squeeze gently at our horses’ sides, urging them forward into a tangle of evergreens. Even if the horses don’t know their way around, my grandfather will be able to find out.

The scene shifts again and I am back in the cold, grey hospital room, in my stainless steel chair by the window. I can feel the gravity of the transformation; I want to go racing back to the realm of fantasy, as fast as my horse’s legs can carry me.

After a few seconds, I sigh and push my homework assignment to the side. These dreams will always be just that: dreams. There is no point in reliving old memories over and over in my mind; it will only torture my poor heart beyond endurance.

In the bed beside me, I hear the sounds of someone stirring.

“What... what’s going on?”

His voice may be weaker than it was in the memory, but it is still familiar, still comforting.

“It’s all right,” I soothe. “You were just dreaming. Go back to sleep, Granddad.”

“What’s going on?” my grandfather repeats, and there is a note of urgency in his voice now. “Tell me what’s going on!”

“It’s all right, Granddad.” I rise halfway from my chair and lean over the bed. The grey sheets scratch my arms, stinging my skin like ocean spray, like the lash of a horse’s tail. “It’s all right!”

My grandfather twists and writhes at my tough, as though I am trying to hurt him.

“Tell me where my granddaughter is!” he cries. “Tell me what you’ve done with my Clarice, stranger! TELL ME!”

He is screaming bloody murder. I fight to hold him down, to make him understand, but a group of nurses rush in and attempt to restrain him.

“I’m here, Granddad!” I cry. “I’m here! It’s me, Clarice! I’m here, Granddad!”

It’s a struggle, but eventually my grandfather is overpowered and he lies there on the bed, defeated.

“I want to go home,” he whispers to the ceiling. His voice is choked by tears. “I just want to go home.”

The nurses look like they want to stay, but when they see the expression on my face they think better of it, and file slowly out of the room.

When at least we are alone again, I reach forward to give my grandfather a big hug.

“I know you want to go home,” I tell him soothingly. “I wish I could take you there.”

He looks at me, and the hint of a smile touches the corners of his lips. In his eyes is the light of recognition.

“Clarice?” he whispers hoarsely, hardly daring to believe it. “Is that you? Will you take me home, sweetheart?”

“That’s right,” I say. “I’m Clarice. But you know I can’t take you home Granddad. You’ve asked me that before.”

Granddad’s smile broadens now. His eyelids are flickering shut; he is drifting off to sleep once more, relaxed by my presence.

“I have, Clarice, darling?” he mumbles dreamily.

“Yes, Granddad,” I whisper, and I smile, because of all the things in all the memories that he has lost to Alzheimer’s, he has remembered the most important one of all. I can see his love reflected in his eyes, like a sparkling lake, like sunshine, like pure light. “I remember.”