(excerpt from Laws of Flight by Darren Greer)
DALTON AND I USED to fly to the river.
The river runs right through the centre of town and then makes its way through the country all the way down to Mill Village and Liverpool, to the sea.
It was our favorite thing to do, to stay just twenty feet or so above it, side by side, sometimes holding hands and flying as fast as we could go until we got to the end. Our speed was never so great as when we flew the river.
We knew every crook and every pool. Every eddy and every fall.
We could do it in our sleep.
“We do do it in our sleep,” laughed Dalton.
We never flew the river alone because of the ocean.
When you reach the end of the river and come out on the water endlessly stretching before you, it’s hard to know when to stop. You don’t want to stop. You want to keep on flying further and further until you discover where it ends. It’s almost as tempting as the stars.
Dalton said if we didn’t have each other we might not stop. We might never come back and so be lost forever. So we made a rule that when we go we only go together, where Dalton could always tell me to stop and turn around.
And I always did. But it was hard.