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We weren’t sure what they were at first. We were speechless as we counted their fingers and toes. When the pediatricians assured us everything else seemed normal, we let out a breath we didn’t know we’d been holding.
They were little more than a shimmer on the backs of our newborns, translucent like a dragonfly’s. Over the first few days, down appeared, then feathers. We couldn’t stop tracing the edges with our fingers. They were, without doubt, wings. We were awash with wonder.
We imagined our children living dreams we never could — gliding on the wind, playing treetop tag, shouting Watch me! before loop-de-looping in the blue.
It wasn’t to be.
Our children were born with wings but not the instinct for flight. Clueless about how to teach them, we tried our best when they were old enough to understand.
We encouraged them to watch the birds. Do that was the best instruction we could offer. Our offspring became masterful at imitating their calls but not their soar.
We strapped our beloveds into safety harnesses and dangled them from rooftops. They scrunched their faces and flapped with all their might. We felt a whistling breeze as we stood with uplifted arms and hopes. But our children fluttered like falling leaves. We taught them to fly kites then had them stand against the wind, imagining they were on the rising end of the string. Feeling a little mystical and a lot desperate, we burned incense and massaged their shoulders on moonful nights. Some parents resorted to desperate measures; we pretended not to hear the sirens.
When our little ones sobbed over their failures, we took their hands and said Don’t worry, we’ll walk together. We’ll walk the length of Chile. We’ll walk until our feet sing. But our hearts had landed with a thud.
The experts confirmed what we already feared: the plumage was majestic, a work of art. But ornamental, like a later Matisse, and no more useful for flight than our arms. It was as if nature had intended for the children to fly, but botched the job. Or played a cruel joke.
The wings became a burden. Fixed and unfolding, they grew into awkward things that knocked over vases and lamps, couldn’t fit in cars, and made crowded sidewalks a nightmare. Airplanes couldn’t accommodate the appendages. Our children, yoked with the ground, would never see clouds from above.
We couldn’t figure out how to remove the wings because they were entangled with the spine. We tried strapping them down, but that triggered flames of pain.
Years passed, and our hopes for our children remained unfulfilled. Oh, they adapted and got by as we did. But we’d hoped, for them, the sky wasn’t the limit.
Now we’re on our last legs. The winged of our winged recently found a way to safely amputate the appendages, which are tossed and incinerated. They rise as smoke and ash, twisting and curling, flying at last. Soon the only sign there ever were wings will be the scars. They’ll whisper We were here We were here.
David Henson and his wife have lived in Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes, two Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net and has appeared in numerous print and online journals including The Metaworker, Ghost Parachute, Fictive Dream, Pithead Chapel, Moonpark Review, Literally Stories and Fiction on the web. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.
