She whispers my name, invites me to dance in the Haight, where musical history thrives. She says each street glows a different color, so lively, I’ll never want to close my eyes. She promises peace to my Pisces heart when my feet touch the Pacific waves. She promises air so expressive and sweet I’ll be lifted off my notebook’s page, higher than the city’s hills to a place where possibility can mate with my dreams to create my new life of art! Finally… sick of making wishes on candles Wish You Were Here fills my head as our plane lands. Only a sad, inspired song like that can predict my mood as we sit close on the rocking boat, drinking wine on the bay. I can’t take my eyes off the Golden City’s lights; a weightlessness of birds taking flight explodes in my eyes, and I realize San Francisco kept her promise, though I can’t keep a promise to myself as I clip my own wings; I’m not brave enough to stay. Jennifer...
Flying Island is the Online Literary Journal of the Indiana Writers Center, accepting submissions from Midwest residents and those with significant ties to the Midwest.