winged.

Originally shared by Kevin Walsh

winged.

I forget people

but memories of them linger inside me,

the way the wings nested against the wall

in grandfather’s house.

I imagined grandfather swooping from the sky

as I fingered the smooth

vague shapes of the feathers.

his official name escapes me even now

so I just called him Grampa birdman.

me, the small visitor to a house that swallowed me

the way kitchens tend to swallow the smells of every cooked meal.

grandfather,

always caught mischievously whispering in my ear

by gramma…

“what are you whispering into that boy’s ear?”

he’d lift his chin and respond….”oh nothing.”

the last time I visited she stood in the doorway

and asked me what was under my coat,

to which I responded, “oh….nothing.”

the first time I flew I trembled

hearing grandfather’s voice in my head

giving sparse and careful details he’d entrusted me with

on how to swoop and rise

over harsh winds and gentle breezes.

me,

remembering the arms of a boy

that refused to stay at his sides,

as he flew from the kitchen to the dining room

and back again.

(thankyou Kirsten logan and kim peace:)