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:)