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Ah yes, mother. That is what I wrote you, isn't it? About my wet, little wings. Yes, I remember now. I came here to test out my wings, to open my chest, to spread the feathers wide and beat the air. Resist gravity. I wrote that to you because I knew it would comfort you in my absence. That I was going away because it was time to fly. You never meant to shield me. You knew, more than anyone, the heights I could soar to. You, more than anyone, wanted me to reach those peaks, the high mountain air, the sunshine. And you knew, more than anyone, that it would take the muscle, persistence, and faith of my own wings to get me there. Yes, mother. These wings are proving to be fashioned of far stronger, more flexible, and beautiful material than either of us knew. They're of good make--patterned after the scores of strength and beauty that preceded me. Of course, I mend tears every now and then. And Scott has bound many a wound. And your breath and her breath and his breath and their breath have helped when I was losing courage and altitude. Even without warm sun here, her kind words have warmed and dried me. And even without fresh air, your words and his have filled my open lungs. I drift on their kindnesses at times. I float on your love. But yes, these wings. They're sound and sturdy. I trust them to fly. Flying, ck [2003-01-18]
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Last five letters Gathering [2009-09-04] ?2002, Scott & Celeste. |