Laws of Flight
by Darren Greer
DALTON LIKED TO GO when there was no moon. I, on the other hand, would have liked to fly across the face of the moon â to turn and plummet through the moonlight down to the river, to catch myself just before I tumbled in, to will myself to hover. I would have tried it, but Dalton wouldnât let me.
He was older, but only by seven minutes.
The number seven is important, he said.
There are seven spots on a ladybugâs back.
Seven days in a week.
A mammalâs neck has seven bones.
Dalton was smart. His teachers said he had the highest scores theyâd ever seen.
We often wondered what it was in the seven minutes that made such a difference. What happened to him while he was out? What happened to me while I was in? Because we discussed it so much, I could see myself inside my mother. Feel myself there, enveloped in her, floating, flying even then, as Dalton â bawling and flecked with gore â was being born, being laid on a table, being sterilized and swabbed clean for this new world.
âI remember it,â he said.
Our parents were scared of us.
My father spent all his time in the fields and the barn, and my mother yelled at us when she heard us talking about black holes and nonÂŹlinear equations and growing pumpkins the size of houses by tinkering with their genes. âItâs not normal,â she said, âand itâs not right.â
Dalton said they were superstitious. âThey believe in God,â he said, as if that was all the proof he needed.
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