Paper airplane

To all the parents like me who have a hard time letting go

Torn from the pages of my book,

You came out crisp and perfect.

I took you,

And I folded you against me.

This act was the first crease in your design.

I held you,

Precious.

I studied your angles

And your bursts and swirls of color.

I read books on making you

Perfect,

So that you could fly right.

With each hour of studied consideration,

I made more folds and creases until you,

My love, were my perfect paper airplane.

I studied your elegant design and

Delighted in how my care and cleverness

Was reflected back at me.

Nose pointed straight and wings ready to sail

In the direction of my choosing.

I pulled back to aim.

With every ounce of my will,

I sent you sailing on the path I chose.

How you did sail!

And then, you missed the mark.

I did everything right,

Tucked,

Folded, and

Creased you in all the right places,

But you did not fly like I wanted.

You lifted

Rolled

And crashed.

I was angry, but determined.

We tried again and again.

Each time a different result,

Never the one I wanted.

After countless attempts and

Rechecking techniques,

You were beaten and worn from a love

That could not let you be.

I picked you up and studied you again,

Nose crooked, wings bent, colors fading.

Now I realize—

You were never meant to fly for me.

You were always flying for yourself.

And that’s ok.

So, it is time for a new paper airplane.

One you design all your own.

One I will delight in when it

Crashes,

Or loops,

Or veers off course

Just as much as when it “flies right,”

Because now I understand.

The trick to a paper airplane is simply letting go.

You, my love, are my paper airplane.

Show me how you fly.