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20 July 2011 @ 11:25 pm
“I want to travel,” she tells me.

I run a finger gently through her flame-streaked hair, and ask her why.

“I want to run away,” she tells me. There is a look in her eyes that I know well, a look of longing and desperate boredom, a look that tells me more than her words.

I run my finger down her cheek, tracing the edge of her sad smile, and ask her if she is ready to leave. I feel her stiffen, her neck and back tensing. I can see her eyes darting from side to side, suddenly unsure.

“I don’t know,” she tells me. “Everywhere I want to go isn’t here, but I can’t get there yet.” She curls herself tighter against my chest.

I run my finger across her lips, feeling the cold of each piercing, and ask her if she still remembers how to dream.

“I don’t know,” she tells me, taking my hand, intertwining her fingers with mine. “I left my dreams by the shore, years ago.”

I press my lips gently against her forehead, and tell her that it is time to remember them. It is time for her to close her eyes, and to let the world fall away.

I tell her again how to find castles in clouds, how to seek doorways in forests, how to breathe in the sea. I teach her again how to weave stories from air, how to paint adventures from words, how to draw life from snow. I whisper to her again how to live as she has dreamed, how to dream as she has sung, how to sing as she has lived.

And then I watch, as she stands, then steps up, bare feet resting gently on the air. Her clothes fall away, and then her skin, and then her blood and bones, until she is just her spirit, her dream. I watch, as her wings unfurl from her back, and she takes to the skies.

Now, she is free to travel wherever she dreams.