She stood there,
all pixie-like —
the archetypal Wendy,
and I her goofy Peter.
Red shoes,
like some kind of Dorothy caricature.
A denim skirt,
and a white-and-black striped blouse.
The horizontal lines
were not required
to flatter a generous waistline —
quite the opposite.
That blouse highlighted a figure
that was borderline too skinny.
Small breasts.
Slim hips.
Short “bob” hairstyle.
She could have been mistaken
for an attractive man.
But of course,
she was not.
She was indeed
my Wendy,
through and through.
I should know.
We flew together once.
Arm in arm,
we first walked,
then rose
magisterially
into the air.
We floated up
into the chapel ceiling
of this olde-worlde house,
circling the wooden rafters,
then peering out
of that circular window
right under the eaves.
Oh yes —
I can still remember that.
I mean,
who wouldn’t?
It was wonderful.
Uplifting.
Dare I say —
exhilarating.
The culmination
of a magical day
wandering the glorious countryside
of New England.
Arm in arm,
like two newlyweds.
It was indeed
an unforgettable day —
the simple and innocent joy
of it all.
But —
and there always seems to be one,
doesn’t there?
There was that window.
We can never forget
that glimpse
into our future.
The myopic eye
that revealed
our fate.