silver feathers

last night, i grew wings.

painful at first, the skin around my shoulder blades grew red and raw throughout the day, began to peel, and finally cracked open with a cry. the wings that emerged were damp and weak, unable to carry my weight. i began to open and close them, fold them in and out like a fan, dry out the moulting feathers. by midnight, they had learned to carry me short distances, longer with another halfling (are we birds? humans? harpies like something from a dream?) flying beside me. we slept in cocoons, and i awoke with my baby feathers in a soft pile on my pillow.

my harpy sister and i, holding hands, flew higher than i'd ever dared, and flew lower too, darting between snow-covered tree branches and catching in our claws the biggest fish in small ponds. the further we flew, the longer my feathers grew, and the more sheen they attained, bubbling over by nightfall in a flood of iridescent silver.

my sister, who i by then could see truly was full bird and full human simultaneously, flew away on a golden northern wind, with a snap of her beak that only the other arctic birds and i can understand. a city bird then took me under his wing, taught me how to navigate buildings, which roosts were safe for nesting, and how to fly away from windows by fearing your reflection so you won't waste away with narcissus. i learned so i might exist between two worlds, wilderness and populous, without skipping a beat. when i had learned his lessons, i caught my own winds, enjoying each wrenching pull of my wings, riding the drafts and giving a dance to the sky.

as i arrived home, my feathers began to drop off. i tried to glue them back on, but they wouldn't stick, like so many failed collages and the art projects of children. pure silver now, they hit the ground and turned to liquid, beaded like mercury, and rolled away. my hollow wing bones broke off and turned to dust, and the skin and muscle stitched back together. all that remained of my transformation were the scars where my wings had broken free.

i'm full human now; the birds are out of reach, too far to hear my cries (a baby bird fallen from the nest; don't touch me or i may become tainted, unwanted). i am skin and heavy marrow-laden bones.

but as i curl up in my bed and close my eyes, i grin, comfortable that when i wake, there will be a silver feather on my pillow.


ᐅᕙᑉᑎ'ᓃᑦᑐᖓ...