The Wings
Published in West Trade Review, Volume 15

This essay is a lyrical exploration of losing my brother at a young age.

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My mother started making the wings about a year before she died. They were for my brother. 

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The wings were made of feathers she gathered here and there, strands of wool, pieces of parachute silk she found when she was small. She had saved them in her suitcase, always visible perched on top of the wardrobe.

 

With gossamer threads and silver light, and stinging nettles, the wings were woven together. The anatomy of the wings was such that they would be attached to my brother’s shoulders.

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