When my daughter Maria was three or so she said to me “I can fly.”
“Really?” I answered, “You can fly?”
“Yes, sometimes I fly.”
“Why don’t I ever see you?”
“Because you don’t look up.”
This is the same little girl who told me “Daddy, I’m bigger than you.”
“What do you mean? You only come up to my waist.”
“I mean inside.”
Maria is now almost eleven, and recently we were talking about when she was little.
A lot of kids have imaginary friends, but Maria had a whole neighborhood, and was insulted if you called them imaginary; they were “invisible.”
She intimated that she has very vivid memories of flying, of looking down at the house, of hovering over her friend Kiel.
She is still huge inside, way bigger than me.