What Would Wendy Do?
The secret, he said, is breath. Hold it inside like surprise, like diving into water and that chill you get when wetness catches more than toes. Yes, like that—dive, swim, breathe, then fly.
I always thought of ‘Pan’ as the lute-playing goat-boy with walnut cloven feet, all drawn grainy in charcoal on custard paper. Or, in stories about romance in the woods full of nymphs speaking Middle English, where everyone couples and cross-dresses to impress. But those were midsummer dreams, and this seemed real. Outside at night in winter, there he was tempting me with flight, in secret, away from friends, siblings—children all grown up.
Maybe I was high when I picked him out, full of jitters and espresso, in that café on Colfax. He sailed in like a pirate off a ship and stole free stollen by the fistful, and then he punched the dry treats deep into his ribbed, green pockets. Who would do that? The candied cake was free and awful, and his pockets were the finest wale of corduroy—not frayed, but slick and lined like crop fields in May. I asked if he was some Robin Hood for the Ducks and if he planned to pan the Swedish crumbs out to pond drakes and mallards.
Wrong green outfit, he said.
From there we walked along snow-covered sidewalks, past storefronts with Gaps, Piers, Barns, and Borders on the signs and windows.
Don't you want to be above all this? He asked outside Tootles' Gifts & Toys.
And it was like someone shot me, right there; clichéd me through the heart with bow and arrow. And it wasn't fair—I wasn't hunting or gathering, but looking for escape, maybe. A holiday reprieve from boxes, ribbon-covered plans and proposals—Foreverland.
I'm Peter, he said. And wouldn't it be nice to fly.
(Appeared in Conclave Issue 1: 2008)