Ten years ago, I never would have imagined myself in this situation.
“I won!” he says to me now. “Come on, can’t you do better?”
I grit my teeth. I’ve never been good at this kind of thing. Even as a young girl I never attempted it.
But now, I stand at the top of my second story loft, holding my arm as far back as I can and then releasing the object in my hand as hard as possible toward the open space below. I aim away from the living room’s high ceiling and down to areas full of fragile glass objects, candles, framed photos, and a three-foot-long delicate wooden ship carved in a tropical island and shipped painstakingly to New England.
I try my best to miss these tender objects and hit my intended target – the deck glass doors all the way across the living room.
“You missed!” my cohort chortles. “I won again!”
“No!” I blurt out, suddenly getting fiercely competitive. “Three times out of five. This was only my second attempt.”
My 7-year-old grandson hands me my injured paper plane. “I think you need to make a new one first, Madre.”
Not a chance, I mutter to myself. It took me half an hour to make this one, while Clark made three perfect ones in 10 minutes.
I smooth out the nose of my plane and mumble, “This will be fine.” We climb the stairs back to the loft and the balcony.
“You fly yours first, Madre,” Clark says, a true gentleman.
I grit my teeth and let ‘er fly.
Uh oh, the wooden ship begins to teeter…