I stand on the chair, trying to keep my balance. My right arm stretches upwards as I reach for the top shelf, and I carefully grab the heavy box. I place it on my desk and I open it, and there it is: “When I grow up I will fly.” Among all my old hand-written letters, I choose this one to keep reading. “I will have a boyfriend and my sister will love me and I will live in New York and I will be a CEO. And I will fly. Above the sky I fly fly fly fly fly.”

One

When I was five, I believed in magic. You see, my dad once gifted me a fairy and it was the most special fairy in the world. At first glance, it didn’t seem very pretty or unique, and there wasn’t really anything about it that caught my attention. But my dad said this fairy had a secret—it had the power to fly. He promised that every night, while I slept, she could reach even the highest shelf of my closet. So who cares for truth when there’s intrigue and there’s hope.

Every time my dad tucked me into bed, I’d be giddy with excitement. In my sleep, I wished to experience a miracle. And every morning, I did—my fairy was sitting on the highest shelf. Not once did it occur to me that someone could have possibly moved it. Not even my dad who, a bit too enthusiastically, would constantly remind me to pay close attention to it.

My fairy became a loyal companion—not only physically, but in spirit. Any time I experienced a situation I deemed unwanted, I closed my eyes tightly and focused on how I wished it would change. I thought that if she could fly, she could do anything, and that if she could do anything, she would come and help me. “Please,” I’d ask. “Let this go my way.” I felt the wish so intensely that there was no doubt in my mind that it would reach her. A heart full of faith.

I once went to the doctor to get a vaccine. I can’t remember which one it was, but what I do remember is being six years old and running around his office for what felt like an absurdly long time. He wasn’t giving up (props to Dr. Javiercito): Mar was getting vaccinated at 8:30 a.m. on that Tuesday. Mar was also crying and running away from him, praying to God—more like her mom sitting across from her—that this evil needle wouldn’t come near her. Alas, who hasn’t been a kid; I kept crying and it helped nothing and the needle went in and it didn’t hurt at all but I kept crying.

As I was leaving, I asked him when my next vaccine would be, and he said when I turned ten. I remember my relief then, thinking to myself: “Ten is a big number. At ten, I will have no fear.”

Two

I’m in kindergarten. The bell is ringing and it’s time for recess and I’m sprinting across the hallway to get to the costume trunk before my friend does. I afford myself a look back as I run: She’s nowhere near. Great. My top priority every day is to get to the costume trunk before she does, so I can get the pink princess skirt that fits me perfectly. I get there first today, so I am happy because I am a princess.

Fanny and I used to play princess-sisters every day, a game of adventure that ranged from fantasy maps and complex backstories to incredibly specific scenarios we came up with. The skirts were necessary;we were princesses, as I said. Whichever adventure we decided on, the school transformed into an elaborate mythical world in our eyes. We explored mountains, jungles, and haunted houses. We were chased by witches, werewolves, and all kinds of enemies. It was real, I swear. I was there. The swings turned into vines, slides were rivers, and other people became part of the scenery. Only we were real, and even we were fantasy—we could be anyone we wanted.

Another vivid memory comes to mind: biking along the shoreline with my dad and screaming at the top of our lungs and singing our favorite songs. It was the two of us, sometimes my sister too, and I’d be wearing a helmet that was too big for my head while riding the bike or roller skates or the scooter—it didn’t matter. What did matter was the song we were singing together, the strong wind against our faces and ocean smell so salty I could taste it. He always started the song, and my sister and I always followed, and it was nice. It was nice seeing an adult overcome with happiness just from singing out loud. To me, it was peak adrenaline: I felt like nobody could hear us, like we were the only people in the world singing a song by the shore, like we could keep on biking forever, like we were infinite.

Shabbat family dinners, on the other hand, offered a different sense of freedom. It’s a Friday night and my parents are still in love and my grandparents are still alive and no one has moved away and you’re lying down on the most comfortable couch, dozing in and out of sleep. You hear the dinner in the adjacent room, still ongoing: the clinking of the silverware, the background soft folk music, the laughter, the affection threaded through their voices. You feel safe here, at your grandma’s, a house of love. You know your eyes can—and will—betray you at any moment, and you know you’ll fall asleep and still wake up in your own bed. Or, more exactly, that you’ll be awakened by your mom carrying you to the car, but will pretend to be asleep so she tucks you into bed. A classic. You still live at your mom’s house and your mom loves you and your mom will always tuck you into bed. And you fall asleep in your bed then, for real now, and there are no lingering thoughts, no unresolved feelings, only safety. You’re safe.

Three

We had a beach house, and the beach house had a pool that turned into a multipurpose secret den (yes, a secret den. I know, super cool). The main infrastructure consisted of an inflatable boat that, when turned upside down, served as the roof of this sacred hideout space. My cousin Valu and I composed a hymn for it, choreographed dances about it, and would inhabit it whenever we had to talk about very important things. Like secrets and stuff. The interesting thing is that the hideout wasn’t the boat, but the boat was the hideout once we agreed on it. The den was created by our imagination only. Again, I swear, I saw the world transform completely into a sophisticated secret agent-like building, but only when we were in there. It was meaningful because it was ours and no one else’s.

I still swim in that pool every summer. My sister Olivia, now eight and too young to have experienced the den, has found an alternative worldbuilding technique. On a typical sunny summer day, she’s already in the water by the time I, 22 now, choose to join. 

“What color is your tail?” she asks me.

A part of my brain jumps with excitement at that question. A sign of old remembering, it begs to answer the question, knowing how to please her. I can feel this happening, but I can’t quite place the answer. My first instinct is a logical one, so I’m confused when she asks this question, and yet I hesitate on my answer, just in case it’s logic she’s expecting, in which case I can deliver the most efficient response. 

So I just look back at her, puzzled.

“You know,” she says. “Mine is multicolor but mainly pink and purple with glitter and hearts and stars and it glows in the dark.”

She stares at me then—isn’t it obvious? Can’t you see my beautiful tail?

“Oh, right. Yes! Mine is all the colors of the rainbow and glitter too and has special superpowers like being extra strong.” The most efficient response indeed.

She smiles then, welcoming me. I belong in her world now; the pool turns into an ocean, the house into a kingdom’s castle, the animal floats are our marine friends, and we can suddenly breathe underwater. 

How does she do it? How did I use to do it? How can I win the creative race, be a natural at limitless imagination? Maybe if I think of patterns to anticipate her next questions or remember her previous responses, I can be more accurate next time. Maybe if I do some research about children’s speaking tendencies, and I rehearse enough, I can learn to think like them. Yet, Olivia’s curiosity isn’t rehearsed, it’s natural. Her answers, to her, are obvious.

I wish I never stopped playing mermaids.

Maybe then I could fly.

Four

As a kid, I was always dancing. As soon as I learned how to jump, I was dancing, and the first time I danced, I never stopped. In every old recording of a family gathering, you can see them all together, and when the camera moves slightly to one side you can see little Mar moving her arms to an imaginary rhythm and turning and shaking her head, always smiling. My grandpa, on the camera, would call my name: “Mar, say hi to the video! Hey Mar, show us your dance moves!” but it was pointless. I was consumed by movement; there was dancing and there was me and there was nothing else in the world. 

I was not being watched, or I was, but not judged, and if I was being judged, I didn’t know it. It didn’t concern me—not because of an extremely high self-confidence, but because of my unawareness to the possibility of external perception. It wasn’t odd to be so oblivious to those around me because “she’s just a kid,” they’d say. “She’s just a kid,” so she’s exempt from judgment. Her time for that hasn’t come yet.

Dancing was my life until about four years ago. Four years ago, it began: “Am I good? Am I good enough? Am I among the best? Am I better than the others? Am I doing things right? What do they think of me? Do I deserve to be here?” I guess my time had come. 

I made the most of it, though, way before the doubt and the judgment and the self-criticism. Every single day, I would play “Chandelier” by Sia and I’d put on a bodysuit and become Maddie Ziegler. I’d sing as loudly as I could and move my body in any way I thought of. I wasn’t swinging from a chandelier but I might as well have been. It wasn’t just the movement, but it was the feeling that came with it. I used to be so free. I was flying. 

I’d fly when I danced and I’d fly when I biked and I’d fly as my mom carried me to bed and I’d fly fly fly fly fly. Every day I would fly and every night I’d dream of flying. I mean it—in my sleep I’d open my wings and aim to reach the highest point in the sky. Here, I remember the wind, again, against my face, as I became one with it. Every single night. I was the only person in the world and I was flying.

Five

A quote from Picasso: “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once you grow up.” 

Art is lightness. Art is vulnerability. Art is authenticity. I used to be an artist.

I’m standing in an empty room, and there is only a frame, like an open door, in the center. Across the room stands little Mar. We’re facing each other in silence. I haven’t seen her in a long time. 

Her white nightdress is spotless—did she wear it just to meet me? Her curly hair looks soft—did she shower before coming here? Her lips, that bright red tone—does she know how beautiful she looks?

I shed a tear. I miss you. 

She smiles, eyes glimmering.

I smile back, lips pressed together, and give her a wink.

I hear her laugh, still facing me. I think she understands.

Like following an instinct, I try running to her. Just then, the doorframe stops me, a force holding me back, and she vanishes. Confused, I step back, and there she is again, closer now, standing by the doorframe. I reach for her once more, wanting to hold her, but the frame has hardened and gleams faintly, and I can’t cross it. I look at her; she sees me. I hold her stare, looking for approval, and wrap my arms around myself, hands pressed against my back. I open my eyes; she’s doing the same.

I do it all for her. I hope she knows that.

·······•✦•·······

I still think about my fairy: she who created magic. I look out for the little fairies now, too—I truly do. I enjoy all the minuscule unlikely coincidences and I relate them to something deeply personal and I believe the angels are sending me messages, I swear I do, and I think it must be the universe sending a sign because why wouldn’t my fairy be able to fly by herself? And why wouldn’t I?

Like you, I close my eyes when I wish things would go differently and I hope and I pray that I can somehow change them and I believe in magic, I swear I do. I’m a fool, just enough, and I believe my wishes are sufficient, that God or the universe or any bigger force is omniscient and all-powerful and cares and listens if only I wish hard enough. 

So I’m a princess and I’m a mermaid and I’m the only person in the world and I open my wings and I’m free to fly and I’m always dancing. 

See how naive? See how beautiful?