We’ll Have Crepes for Dinner

– I will jump with you, I say.

We are lying on our stomachs, stretched out on the wing of a small airplane flying low over a white sandy beach, over a tropical island.  The water is blue and clear waving ripples of morning sunlight towards the curving lines of shore.  He comes to his bare feet, gives me an “I’m serious about this” look.

-I’m ready, I say, and try to steady myself as I push up on my hands, bend my elbows, sit back on my knees.  I thrust one foot forward and grasp at the smooth metal with my toes.  Wobbly at first, I let my fingertips brush off the wing as I stand to meet him in the moving sky.

Wrapping my fingers around his, I squeeze his hand and we step off.  Falling, falling, softly like Winter’s first snow, we land feet first somehow safely on the beach and catch our breath – a new breath that takes in salt and pineapple.  We build a small outdoor cafe – an Artists’ Cafe and lay planks of wood flooring over the warm sand, over our first footprints.

I make crepes for the locals and delicately paint each one with hibiscus flowers in red, orange, pink and green sugar.

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