It seemed there was always one kid in every class who believed they could fly. Never testing it out on the monkey bars or a tree branch, but going straight to the barn roof. For me, bravery has always been more of a staircase, a ladder. Something to build upon, daily. I started with books. Each a step in confidence and curiosity. Rungs of empathy and encouragement. And when the words I needed weren’t at hand, I penciled them through my heart. Writing not because I had the answers, but to find a way to them, and even more often, in all of my hopeful confusion, finding a way to simply rise above. Word by word.
That’s why I’ve always trusted people who read. Praised the teachers and librarians. Befriended those in the nook. Traded the bookmarks and the reviews. Sniffed the inside of spines for fuel. Shared the secret views of every “barn roof” and above. Knowing that we’ve always had the ability to rise up. To get beyond. To fly.
