Mark gave me wings. White, not yet filled in, but had potential. They grew with each date. Dinners on bistro patios, drinks at trendy bars, we passed the time as lovers often do. I drank his love, and waited until the wings could carry me.
Dates turned to anniversaries, bistros to TV dinners, and drinks to six-pack drunkenness. The wings continued to grow until they dragged on the floor. The white faded, smudged grey. They failed to fill in, just thin spindles. Fights, screaming, we passed the time as lovers often do. I suffered his insults, and waited until the wings could carry me.
The wings grew into the floor, the tips like fingers gripping the house, and Mark. I pulled, against the years and the memories. Hating each other, we passed the time as lovers often do. I sobbed, and realized the wings would never carry me.
- Heather Heyns
Writer Jenny Harp is a New Zealander grandmother who lives in the United States with her husband and loves God, life and family.
Heather Heyns lives in Southern California, where she writes short stories, poor limericks, and terrible puns