Tales from the Welsh Marches

The little piece below was in response to the topic set at the little writing group I go to once a month.  The topic was The Locked Door and as usual, I tried to approach it from something in no way logical!

The Locked Door

He stood on one side looking at it with surprise and then with regret. He knew he was a little greyer, a little more stooped perhaps but still the man he had always felt himself to be.  The aches and pains weren’t visible, but they were there nevertheless. Time had taken away the wonder of his profession, the one that had given him the gift of flight. It was as close to immortality as a person could get, as near to joy and defeat of the laws of physics as it was possible to be.

Were there things not yet accomplished? Of course. Was there time yet to achieve them? Possibly. He lifted his hand to adjust the hearing aid and pushed himself forward to the next task of the day.

On the other side was an orchard full of apple blossoms. A paper airplane, so well built that it flew and flew, dipped and rose in perfect flight using only the invisibility of air.

Then there was the man in the left-hand seat, in a crisp white shirt with shoulder tabs and hanging up behind him was the dark blue jacket with gold rings around the cuffs. And in front of him the runway, the gateway to flight. He lifted his hand to adjust the headset and pushed the stick forward to meet the magic of air.

One side is the present – the way life is now – the side that can be seen and felt. It is where we plan the next of life’s great adventures. On the other is the past, the way life was. Here is the store house of memory, and the learning that created that golden hoard of experience that made you who you are today. But it is also a doorway to who you still can be.

Lift your hand to fly again in the direction you choose. Push yourself on to the next great adventure.

The mirror will show you the way.

Wilma Hayes