In seventh grade, the father of one of my classmates attacked his family and shot himself over Christmas break. As it was completely disorienting at the time, I’m no longer sure of all the details. I do know my classmate, although shot, survived, and went to live on the East coast with her uncle’s family. I believe her mom died.
Following this, my class folded and strung 1,000 paper cranes for her, and any mention of origami always makes me think of this, even though I now only make cranes as a form of amusement.
This is a haiku. I knew somebody once who really treasured haiku because she believed that anybody could write one, which is probably true. Especially when you consider that traditional haiku is not so solidly 5-7-5 as we usually act like it is.
Origami birds can’t fly until somebody picks them up, or they’re set in a pond, or the wind blows them, etc — until they are touched by some larger, external force. Sometimes we require an outside push to reach our potential. But our wings were always there.