I once had car, painted yellow, that distinct cab-yellow. It was a SUV, about the size of an average human palm with tiny little details of doors, windows and lights marked on. It even had perfectly shaped side mirrors. I could steer it with my hand and like every other trusty toy car owned by a kid, the wheels drove it into a smooth drive. The car was perfect, well almost perfect.
You see, it had one shortcoming: It couldn’t fly and I was going to change that.
Determined to make it fly, I had a duty to my yellow car that needed urgent achievement, no matter the cost. I got together the materials for its flight: a balloon, thread and something to stick it all together, glue or duct tape. For such massive change in the lifestyle of a car, care had to be taken and so newspapers were called in for help. Spread on the carpet floor of my messy bedroom was a horde of newspapers, important for hygienic purposes in this serious operation. I was probably 7 or 8 years old yet a 100 percent certain that my little car would reach for the sky.
I cannot remember how long I spent on that newspaper-mat, meddling with my scarce materials. Inflating the only balloon I had, attaching it to the roof of the SUV with sewing thread and duct tape. I remember holding the car in between my enclosed hands like a weak bird in its nest, too scared to fly. I remember the time I let go, encouraging it to discover its own wings and soar high like it didn’t need anyone to tell it what to do! I remember expecting it to rise in front of my very eyes.
But then again I also remember the weight, the fall and the eventual “THUD!” like a bird too tired to fly. I thought I had it all planned out. I knew it was simple but I didn’t know it was impossible.
My dream had fallen before it could even fly and that’s okay because you know why?
It could always be pushed into a smooth drive and sometimes that’s all you ever need.