Two weeks ago today, I was sitting comfortably against a pillar supporting my office building's facade, reading an amazing book.
Standing across the street from me, a young mother was talking with a friend about the struggles of raising a child alone.
And her boy was running in every direction, laughing and playing.
The boy threw his airplane with a huge slinging toss.
Into the air and dancing in the wind it went. And he was watching it and dancing the jiggy dance of a five-year-old.
He pranced to it when it fell. His legs bent like bands. His toes were pointed and they tickled his back with every leap.
The sun motioned to me and I rose. And I walked home.
I have a book containing the design for the "world's greatest paper airplane," a fine Christmas gift given to me last December.
I made it once. The world's greatest. It was pretty fine, but I think it would have been better in that boy's hands. Or in mine, if I could just learn to think like him again.
