Stretching out my fingers, I imagined them as wings. The joints and ligaments tightened and then loosened as I reset my hands back into the rest position—palms arched, fingers draping down over an invisible ball, like a pianist preparing to play. If I let them, my fingers would fly me to the ends of the world and beyond. Through them I could escape.

A thick cloud blocked the sun and with the lessening of the light, the moment passed. My fingers retreated into loosely held fists, fleshy mirrors of futility.

“No,” I croaked. “Not today. Maybe tomorrow.”

I knew time was ticking forward. I could feel its great weight, the sand from my life’s hourglass accumulating in invisible mounds upon my shoulders. Soon I would stoop, hunched over, my youth having retreated into the past.

None of that mattered. I was stuck, mired in the now, unable to visualize anything other than failure. I had to accumulate rejections, from them I would create my armor but I wasn’t ever ready.

Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow would be better.