"The Way of Wishing"

I scripted my life long ago in the language of  "less obvious observations". I was the sort of child that folded his view of the world into metaphors. In this state of fanciful grandure I thought in the form of impressionistic reflections. "Pretend like" , the two most frequent words in my vocabulary, I pontificated on daily in monologue-ish intonation. I swore with fervor I could travel in time, talk to animals, and move objects with my mind.  Kept awake by the alleged powers of my magical boy mind, I lay pleasantly restless in bed searching the pungent noise of summer midnights gloating at the possibilities. 

Above my headboard, my prize possession hung. It seemed to hover of its own accord neath the A/C vent, suspended twelve inches from the ceiling by transparent nylon fishing line. It was an inflatable Snoopy vs. the Red Baron biplane. This was the type of novelty you won at traveling carnivals for winning the ring toss or knocking the teeth out of a plastic clown with a water gun, which indeed I had. Struggling to sleep, I proudly scanned it from trim to tail each night. Eye to eye with Snoopy, I practiced mind over matter by focusing and defocusing my eyes.  Forcibly fogging my corneas became the channeling potential of locomotion. Every hint of the plane's movement validated the existence of my special powers. More so, the secadas humming outside my window endowed these moments with chimeric intensity.

After several minutes of grasping air like a "sorcerers apprentice", I chose respite from dissappointment in the form of closing my eyes. In case my powers didn't work instantaneaously I rationalized perhaps there was a gestation period for the metaphysical. Maybe you had to first imbue the subject then wait as your creation takes form?  I remembered seeing Angela Lansbury have this same problem in "Bedknobs and Broomsticks."  So I waited. Daring to squint a peek at progress, I opened my eyes to see Snoopy spinning slowly counterclockwise. I had done it!! I was the first person in the documented history of humanity to move an object with their mind! I had indisputable proof!
I reproduced this ceremony and its results night after night. For a while, it was glorious basking at the top of the world with the proven might of telekinesis. What next befell me I have just recently understood.
 
Unbeknownst to me, my parents were approaching divorce. A six year old has no comprehension of the subltle silences that grow between adults. After a typical day of Kindergarten at Gullett elementary, my mother picked me up from school in the primer red Subaru she always drove. Though shabby inside, I hadn't noticed the tears in the vinyl or loose wires below the ignition cylinder. Somehow, on this day, my mother's demeanor shifted my own. She was solemn, eyes pacing as she drove. I followed her stares for the destination of her shifting gaze. In doing so I took in each loose end of seat fabric, wires, and peeling vinyl like a revelation. My new awareness of these conditions was the beginning of knowing what we didn't have and other things we'd always needed.
 
My mother turned into the driveway crackling through the gravel that collects near the curb. We walked into the house to see my father sitting silently uncomfortable on the couch. Beside him were a collection of things familiar. Some stuff was mine. Other things belonged to he and my sister. Each pile of items contained things pulled from their rightful place of familiarity. I wanted to return each pile and each item to its proper place. Yet, somehow I felt the impossible permanence of their fate. I ran to my room to seek out my most envious possession. Plucked from its string, the objectified symbol of my innocence was gone. Twisting in the breeze of the A/C vent above my bed, the nylon line that gave flight to my first great leap of faith streamed companion-less. I ,beyond all else, felt the sum total of my finite self shrink around me. There was no magic anymore, only the cold dusty air that dried my eyes as it escaped the slats of the vent. My father left that day. 

I have walked the sad and winding road back to my childhood faith. I have searched for reasons why I should go back.  I have searched for reasons why I shouldn't. I have screeched gutturally on my knees, wishing for something quicker and more permanent than death to remove my questioning. To call the missing piece God is too simple. This implies a seperation or an impossible void. As a man I've felt like the nylon string dangling companion-less from my ceiling.  The pain of living somehow holds up to the light all that we lack. Yet, I remember a boy who folded his view of the world into metaphors, gleaning magic from the novelty of what he imagined he could be. Maybe, I could again lay pleasantly restless in bed, searching the pungent noise of summer midnights gloating at the possibilities, just maybe.