As a child I was sure I could fly. I knew I couldn't actually fly but that was only because I hadn't yet found out the secret. I wasn't daunted. I knew someday I would learn the secret to flying. Maybe when I grew up a little bit and turned six.
In anticipation of such a day my brothers (one year and two years older) and I would practice flying. They would tie on their shiny, shimmery, dress up capes that were blue on one side and red on the other.
I would tie on my trusty pillowcase.
We took turns (very courteously; I don't recall ever being pushed or shoved by my brothers insisting that they get more turns than I) clambering onto the couch, standing on the arm, and jumping off. It was delightful to watch each other's capes fly out. It was even more delightful to feel the air rush past as we fell to the floor.
You may think it sad that I only got a pillowcase while they got real capes. I didn't mind. They might have had shiny, shimmery capes, but I was sure my pillowcase would get the job done faster and better.
Pillowcases also had the advantage of doubling as a snack pack for unexpected emergencies. It was also a good place to store books, though I couldn't wear the cape while I was carrying around books.
I never did learn to fly. Not even when I turned six. The part of my heart that belongs to whimsy is still sure that someday it will happen.
I suddenly have the greatest urge to tie on a pillowcase cape and jump off the end of the slide. I will then commence running up and down the length of my backyard to make my cape sail out behind me, just as if I were flying.
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