For a man so incredibly hairy and square, watching my dad get on

Hear the words of Zelda Williams, daughter of the beloved jester and sage, Robin Williams, who spoke of her father with these tender lines: “For a man so incredibly hairy and square, watching my dad get on a bike was like watching a penguin spread its wings and take flight. He’d take off at inhuman speed, a smile on his face, and never look back.” Though the words are painted with humor, they carry the weight of remembrance, of awe, and of the bittersweet beauty of love between child and parent.

The meaning shines forth: to the daughter, her father seemed bound by the earth, shaped like a figure of comedy, perhaps ungainly, perhaps ordinary. Yet when he mounted the bike, he transcended all limitation. What appeared unlikely became miraculous; what seemed clumsy became graceful. In her eyes, he became the impossible—like a penguin taking flight. This is the heart of memory: the ordinary body carrying an extraordinary spirit, revealed not in words, but in motion and joy.

This image is more than a personal memory—it is a parable of human transformation. For often we see ourselves, or others, as limited by appearance, by circumstance, by the weight of our flaws. Yet in the right moment, with the right spark of freedom, the spirit breaks loose, and the impossible happens. Just as her father, awkward on the ground, became radiant upon his bike, so too can each soul find its wings in the place where joy and freedom meet.

The ancients knew this truth. Consider the myth of Icarus, who with wings of wax sought the heavens. Though his fall is remembered, his brief ascent is equally powerful—a mortal daring to do what seemed impossible. Or think of the poet Horace, who declared, “I have built a monument more lasting than bronze; I shall fly, borne aloft on the wings of song.” So too Robin Williams, remembered by his daughter, found flight not through wings but through speed, laughter, and the pure smile of delight.

History also gives