Wings

When you were born, only I could see the

shy silver wings

that arched and folded behind your back.

As a child you would fly

across living room furniture, and

terrorize mama,

with leaps of faith from dirty kitchen table tops.

We would laugh together.

When we went to pre-school, you

hid you wings behind your backpack,

although nobody noticed but me.

Sitting still was uncomfortable;

your little feathers chafed against the

hard, wooden chair.

I watched you get scolded

for fidgeting.

The first time you fell in love,

you tried to tell me,

but I wouldn't believe you.

You kept your invisible wings to yourself, and

tried to be the person you knew.

When I left,

you couldn't fly for weeks.

You were turning seventeen when

they discovered your voice.

People came from everywhere to read your archives.

You were a woman now. Your

full, white wings shimmered with life

and stretched to heaven,

but only my eyes could see them write

what your voice could not.

Till today,

my shirt carries your tears.

After awhile, you wouldn't write anymore.

"What's the point?" you said, "When

no one can see me fly?"

I said that I could, and bought you ice-cream,

but I knew that it would never be enough.

Like a sad song, I

faded away,

and on an early September morning in the Autumn of 08'.

I disappeared into a blue, cloudless sky.

I do not blame you.

These days, a lingering melody glides across

living room furniture.

I do not know where you have gone.

The birds refuse to tell me.

But I have polished the kitchen table top

and every evening,

I leave the window open.

With much love,

A.