Some days, the world feels lighter.
When friends hold the strings.
Nobody could remember who first suggested teaching a bear to fly.
The bees insisted it had been the bird.
The bird insisted it had been the bear.
The bear insisted it had simply looked at the sky for a very long time.
That seemed believable.
Looking upward was one of its favorite hobbies.
Every Saturday afternoon they gathered in the flower meadow.
The bees inspected the ropes.
Very carefully.
They believed knots deserved respect.
The little blue bird inspected the wind.
Nobody knew how.
It simply tilted its head.
Then nodded.
The bear inspected the balloon.
Mostly by smiling at it.
One bee carried an official checklist.
Balloon?
Round.
Bear?
Hopeful.
Bird?
Chatty.
Everyone agreed the paperwork was complete.
They lifted together.
Not very high.
Just enough for the bear to discover something surprising.
The world looked friendlier from one meter above the ground.
The rabbit waved.
The sheep applauded politely.
Even the butterflies seemed unusually encouraging.
The bear laughed so loudly that several daisies leaned in to listen.
People often assumed the bees were carrying the bear.
The bees quietly disagreed.
“We’re only helping.”
“The balloon is helping.”
“The wind is helping.”
“The bear is helping.”
“Everyone is carrying a little.”
The bird liked that answer.
So it repeated it to anyone who asked.
Soon the whole village stopped saying,
“Look!
The bear is flying!”
Instead they said,
“Look.
They’re flying.”
Nobody could explain exactly when one bear became six friends.
It simply happened.
As good friendships often do.
When the sun began to set, they slowly drifted back toward the meadow.
The balloon rested.
The ropes became loose again.
The bees buzzed home.
The bird disappeared into the old oak tree.
The bear looked up once more.
Not because it wanted to fly again.
Because tomorrow was Saturday.
And friends were remarkably dependable.
The balloon, meanwhile, seemed perfectly content to wait.
Livora Gracely 
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