Once upon a time, a young boy stood at the foot of a live oak, neck craned towards the sky, dark eyes hooked somewhere in the midst of a lattice of dark leaves against powder blue.
“Son,” said the father to his child, “come away from there and help me.”
“Son,” called the father again, but the boy stood frozen, mouth dropped open, eyes wide with wonder. His gaze tracked the movement of some ancient being creeping slowly through the treetop, ash and emerald scales blending with the rough bark and dark leaves, shards of scattered daylight gleaming brightly on the black spines of its slinking back as it moved steadily across a tree limb. To walk, its short legs rotated forward, long-toed feet turning like bike pedals, curved claws sinking into the wood.
“Dad, look!” cried the boy, straining on his tiptoes, “It’s a dragon!”
Sighing, the father left his rumbling mower and stalked towards his boy, taking him tightly by the hand. He gave the tops of the trees a quick glance; saw nothing but silver moss, the tiny dots of a woodpecker’s business, the near invisible darting of a camouflaged brown anole. “No more daydreaming. Time to learn,” he said, and tugged the boy to his waiting, growling machine. Together, they climbed onto the lawnmower, dusty red. The father pulled his son onto his lap, placed his faux straw hat over the boy’s wild curls. “How many times do I have to tell you to remember your cap,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Dark skin doesn’t mean the sun can’t hurt you. Got it?”
The boy turned his head. The sun was sparkling sweetly, a sharp pearl dancing between the oak’s many-fingers. “Yes, dad. Sorry dad.”
The father pulled the boy snug against his chest, adjusted their legs so the lawnmower’s steering levers were in easy reach, and double checked to make sure his son’s feet were safely on the platform. Then, the father turned the engine off and pulled the yellow parking brake on. “Alright,” he said, “now. Just like we practiced.”
With one last quick glance at the top of the live oak, the boy swallowed the fiery nervousness chattering in his stomach, put the lawnmower in drive, and turned on the engine. The lawnmower roared to life. Though the boy’s small, sweaty palms could hardly close around the steering levers, he was strong enough to push the levers forward, and send the mower thundering down the side of the road, severed grass spewing out behind them like ocean spray.
They worked that way all through the next hour, with the father leaning over his boy’s small shoulders, guiding his boy’s hands, telling him which lever to pull and how to make the mower turn smoothly, without tearing up the grass. By noon, the boy was a whining mess of sweat and headache.
“Find some shade and wait until I’m finished,” said the father. He handed the boy a water bottle and a tangerine, then left him standing in the newly-shorn grass.
Free of the mower’s thundering roar and its bumpy gait, the boy miraculously found energy for a spring in his step as he walked back up the lawn to the curb where the live oak waited.
“It’s pretty shady here,” he mused loudly, as if his father could hear. Feeling quite pleased, he settled himself once more beneath the live oak’s boughs. He peeled the tangerine, popped a piece into his mouth and closed his eyes at the slightly sour sweetness that burst over his tongue. The juice was still cold, thanks to the ice pack the boy’s older brother had placed in his lunch box early that morning.
When the boy opened his eyes, the dragon was back, on a big branch right over the boy’s head. The boy’s eyes flew wide, but, scared of frightening away the creature, he stopped himself from making a sound. Juice spread cold on his fingers—in his surprise, he had squeezed the tangerine too tightly. He could see the dragon’s long, striped tail, hanging off the thick, twisted, drooping limb that was sticking out over the boy’s head, reaching down to grass far past the boy’s feet. The boy held his breath as the dragon’s small head and sagging neck came over the side of the branch and into view. All at once, the boy was staring up into small, hard black eyes. And then, its gaze never leaving the boy’s, the dragon crawled down the trunk to where the boy sat, each step slow and measured.
They stared at each other, the dragon and the boy.
“You don’t have any wings,” whispered the boy.
“No,” said the dragon, “I do not.”
They stared at each other some more.
“Um, would you like some of my tangerine?” asked the boy, holding out his hand. The rich orange peel, gleaming in the sun and bright against the boy’s brown palm, could not outshine the quiet ring of dark gold surrounding the black center of the dragon’s eyes.
The boy placed the tangerine on the ground, in the red mulch and brassy leaves. The dragon went forward and took a bite. “Thank you.” It ate half the tangerine, then looked back up at the boy. “Thank you,” it said again. “What brings you to my tree?”
"What do you mean?" From the distance came the low rumbling of the lawnmower, and the sweet warm scent of freshly cut grass.
"The ones who come here want something from me," explained the dragon, "always. What is it that you want, small one?"
The boy frowned, sat back on his heels. Through the small holes of his father's hat, sunshine speckled his furrowed brow. The boy placed his hands on his jeans, denim rough beneath his palms, and shook his head. Spots of light danced on his jeans. "I don’t know. I want—I wanted you to be real.”
The dragon took another bite of tangerine. "What about that, you keep looking over there." With its long, tapering tail, the dragon pointed to where the boy's father was plowing through the grass.
The boy's face fell. "Well, I . . . my dad wants me to do landscaping, like him. Um. But, I . . . "
The dragon's tongue flicked out to lick the air. Its pointed mouth closed in something resembling a smile. "You want to . . .”
"No!" The boy shook his head. "No, I don't, I don't want to be a landscaper."
The dragon flicked its tail. "Then, what?"
The boy hesitated. Overhead, a bird lifted into the sky, black and iridescent.
"Promise not to tell?"
***
The boy's father brought his mower to a stop at the far side of the now perfectly-manicured ridge, leaned back in his seat, and wiped the back of his hand over his brow. Far down the slope of the ridge, cars rushed faintly past. Sweat was dripping into the father’s eyes, making them sting, so when a shadow flickered over the grass and his legs, the father first thought that it was some manifestation of his own exhaustion. But then his son's voice came to him, on the wind, amidst the buzzing insects and the hum of the mower's engine.
"Dad! Daddy! Look!"
The shadow rippled over the father's skin. The father looked up, shading his eyes with a gloved hand.
His boy careened against the sun, face wreathed in a blinding smile, laughter tumbling onto the wind. His wings, stretched wide, glittered green and blue and black, and their tips painted the sky with white fire.
"Look, Daddy, I'm flying!"
And the boy's father watched, wordless, as his hat fell from his son's head and floated gently to the ground. The father went, bent down, lifted the hat from the ground. Brushed off a few dead pieces of grass. Wiped his eyes.
"Son," he said softly, turning his gaze back to the sky. "Look at you go."