The perfect girl for me in my grandmother’s head
she used to tell me
would someday find me
and whisk me off into the Swiss alps
via a hot air balloon,
had a parking place
in the middle of an alpine field
where tiny lavender flowers pushed
against a background of golden grass
as far as my dream could see.
“You just haven’t found the right one yet,”
she used to say,
her knitting needles
holding onto their tiny mittens
which seemed to reflect
my wish to be some nest-like version of a father
both male and female bird’s freefall into
before they realize they have wings.
These days the phrase “My boyfriend does this,”
or “my boyfriend likes that,”
falls through the branches
and jumps practically off of the air,
each time I find a kindred spirit,
so I’m thinking maybe
that girl my grandmother used to say
would find me
is still up in her balloon
looking down and searching for me,
and she just can’t see me yet.
That’s when I know she’s already here,
but that we’re somewhere in the clouds,
and can’t see each other very well
because of the fog of want,
but that we don’t really need to either,
since she’s an aspect of myself.
We can go our whole fleeting lives feeling
each other’s presence
and singing songs to one another
without having to possess the other,
because we are always becoming the other.
Maybe this is what it means
to feel held by a wisdom beyond yourself,
or one way to learn how to fly.
But I’m not sure my grandmother meant for me
to fall in love with that.