Still Flying

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Daily writing prompt
When you were five, what did you want to be when you grew up?
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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

When you’re five, everything feels big.
The world, your dreams, your backpack.

But as you get older, you can’t always hold onto things without a little help.

That’s what happened when I found it—
a flash of memory caught in an old photo,
a school project that somehow survived.
Battered, scarred, but solid.
Like the dreams taped inside it.

I just wanted to fly.
I couldn’t explain why, not then.
I just did.

To see the world.
The wonders from our primers,
the postcard places that looked too perfect to be real.

Maybe I’d discover new lands,
find cool toys, read comics in French.
Were mummies scary? I needed to know.

Was riding a motorcycle as cool as it looked in the movies?
Could I jump cars like Evel Knievel?
Would I one day ride with a girl on the back,
smiling like it was the best thing ever?

I knew I wasn’t old enough for that part.
Maybe when I get big.

Would I be able to sing and dance?
Be cool like Elvis?
Tough like G.I. Joe?
Stretch like Stretch Armstrong?
Or maybe I’d just build the wild stuff I made with my Legos.

But mostly…
Mostly, I wanted to make my mom proud.

And now—
I did fly.

France, Italy, Spain, Japan—majestic in ways no book ever captured.
There’s nothing like flying over treetops with the chopper doors open.
Heart racing.
Then pounding.
Blood surging through my veins.
I felt something I still can’t describe with words.

I never jumped cars,
but I had that girl on the back.
Her arms around me,
her heartbeat against mine,
that sharp little yelp when things got wild.
Yeah, that was something.

I don’t sing, but boy, did I dance.
And when I stopped… I got fat.

Some say I was tougher than G.I. Joe.
And somehow, my influence stretched across the globe.
But no one will ever know my name.

What I remember most—
Mom’s smile as she talked about “the grands,”
each one certain they were her favorite.
Each one knowing they were loved.

As for me…
Did I make her proud?

God, I hope so.

13 thoughts on “Still Flying”

  3. This felt like reading a postcard from the heart—stamped with childhood dreams and sealed with grown-up wisdom.

    Flying, riding, discovering… those weren’t just hobbies. They were tiny fires lit by wonder. As kids, we dream in full color. As adults, we often switch to black and white. But you managed to keep some colors alive.

    You didn’t just chase dreams. You danced with them. Maybe not all of them stayed for dinner—but enough showed up to make the journey worth it.

    Life rarely gives us everything we ask for. But sometimes, it hands us something even better: stories, scars, and laughter shared on a motorcycle seat.

    The last line about your mom? That one landed softly, like a feather. Sometimes the ones who loved us most become the silent stars we aim to make proud.

    Beautiful ride. Both wild and wise.

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    1. Yeah, I’d to think I did. I know she would laugh at some of stories for sure. She happily read everything I gave her. Ted, you’ve read long enough you can probably relate to this next part. When I told Mom I was writing a novel, her response was “Is it funny? or It is serious?” her expression was straight faced. I had this confused expression or something because, she followed up with, “Sometimes you cracking people up and other times you are so damn serious.” her expression didn’t change. Still somewhat confused I muttered, “Hopefully, both?”

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      1. Definitely both! It’s interesting that the writing side of things comes from Mom’s side, isn’t it? Dad had zero interest, but Moms will encourage their sons, and bless them for it.

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