The last time I saw Nathan*, the youngest of my garden boys, he was as talkative as he was that time he was enjoying hot chocolate and lack of scrutiny from his older brothers.  Amazingly, although it was many months after the hot chocolate episode, he continued our conversation from where we'd last left off- as if there had been no lapse. He went right back to listing the flavours of ice pop his grandmother was capable of making. Then he went right into telling me about the things he dreamt at night.

He sometimes had nightmares if he went to sleep straight after listening to "jumbie" (ghost) stories as told by his grandmother or his eldest brother. Then, he always dreamt of some long departed relative, whose picture was on the coffee table in their living room, chasing him.  He would run as fast as he could in his dream, but, it never seemed fast enough. So, he would take to flying and they could never catch him then. Sometimes, he wishes he could fly in real life.  He would do certain things then. Things would be easier then.  

As he prattled on over his juice and hot muffin, I was taken back to myself as a young man, a bit older than him. I used to make that same wish. Often. I used to feel a strong surge of envy whenever I saw a bird fly away. And, sometimes, when I was alone in my room, I’d stretch my arms out and wonder what I would look like and where I’d fly to, if I had wings.

I even used to have this recurring dream in which I was flying off, at the necessary breakneck speed, in total blackness with the very real feel of whipping winds in my hair, distorting my face. Back then, escape was a popular theme of thought for me.  I used to think that if I just gathered enough confidence, I could just get up one day and fly away…leaving everything, my bothersome body included, behind.

Nowadays, when I have time to think about such things, I think about those philosophers who talk about our souls being trapped in/by our bodies.  I’m in agreement with the trapped theory, except I like to think that my body and soul are in cohorts and so have found themselves both trapped here by gravity.  That I’m quite attached to my soul is a given.  But, I’m just as fond of this body.  I think I’ve taken great care of it over the years, so the thought of the ultimate goal being my soul escaping and leaving it behind does not particularly appeal to me.

Ages ago, before life happened to me and father’s silence was still the biggest of my worries, I came upon a shivering adult bird.  It was half on its back- half on its side, struggling to right itself and emitting what would pass for shrill bird screams.  I bent to inspect it and immediately noticed that some recent encounter had left the bird with one badly mangled wing.

It looked as if some cat had gotten to the bird, focused all its rage on that one wing, then got bored and left. The bird struggled more, protesting my presence and examination. I could tell that it had not been lying there in the cold for too long.  I also knew that flying away, then or ever, was not an option for this poor creature. I’ve come face to face with pain, suffering and death many times since then, but somehow, that bird, that day in the grass in the cold with the badly mangled wing, stays with me.

*Name has been changed.

 (V). Damien