Touch a Star

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Dave pulled hard on the rope, driving the backyard swing up into the cool evening air. He held his breath, trying to catch the fleeting moment of weightlessness at the top of the arc. It was gone too soon; he began the plunge back. Earth sucks.

The swing thumped and bumped, swaying with his weight. It was for kids, not a thirteen-year-old. But he always came to the old swing when his world was flying—or when it crashed. He came because of a memory, or a memory of a memory.

“Mommy, David ride starship.” Even at three he’d known what he wanted. He watched it every day on TV.

“No, David. You can’t ride a spaceship.”

At three he’d discovered can’ts; he’d found a lot more since. But at three he’d also started hunting for ways around can’ts. He pulled urgently on his mother’s dress. “David ride airplane.”

“Yes, honey, someday you and Mommy may ride an airplane.”

He wasn’t finished. “David touch a star.”

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