Icarus

Papa,
You just don't understand.
You never did,
for all you are a genius.
The genius.
You understand the architecture of engineering.
You understand mechanics and rudimentary physics.
Your knowledge of the physical world is unparalleled.

But Papa,
me--
your only child,
your only son--
you don't know me at all.

You made me those wings
and you warned me,
"Don't fly too high, my son. The heat will melt the wax"

But how high is too high?
With you there is an exact number.
All I can do is wing it.

How can I remain low and lowly
when you have given me the means to soar?
I feel the joy and the freedom.
I can't pretend I don't.

I refuse to pretend I don't.

How could you not know
merely by putting the idea in my head,
that I would have to try it?

You didn't know, though.
People are a mystery to you.
I am a mystery to you.

Up I go.

You were right, of course.
I fly too close to the golden chariot.
The wax melts.
The feathers molt.
And a new sensation comes to me.

In your head you can do the math;
you can tell how fast I'm falling.
You know how hard I'll hit.

What I know is the joy of soaring.
The laughter of exuberance.
I know that the wind screaming past me
causes my blood to rush through my veins.
And rushing to the waves below,
I scream with the wind,
not in fear, but in defiance!

Do not be sad, Papa.
Do not blame yourself.
I don't.
I thank you.
You gave me choice.
One I made willingly.
I love you.
Good-bye.


©2015-Art Belliveau