A little quiet time

That subtle distinct scent of rain always drives me nuts. I enjoy the smell, but I don’t want it to rain. You can’t fly when it rains. The birds find whatever shelter they can to wait out the storm. Protecting their young ones is their first priority. To them I am a strange giant bird. I bet they wonder what kind of egg I hatched from, but they still seem to trust me. My favorites are the red winged blackbirds. I feel a kinship to them. Maybe because our wings and eyes are the same and understand those parts of me. They don’t judge me.
Tiny feet on my fingers and shoulders, I love the feel of those toes gripping to keep themselves balanced on their new found perch. Happy chirps and not so happy chirps come from those mini mustard colored beaks. I wonder if they are telling me stories or their problems. I shift my weight in attempt to wake my ass before I take off. The birch swayed a little more than I would have liked in the newly born wind. So much for relaxation time, better get home before mom and dad come looking for me. They would kill me if they saw me flying again. Mom would never let me hear the end of it. I can already see hands on her bony hips, nose scrunched up, her mouth tightly closed and a fire in her chocolate eyes. Her voice will be shrill as she scolds me about the dangers of being seen and so on.
She can’t stand to see my wings, but my dad doesn’t mind. If I forget to wear my sunglasses, my mom ends up shielding her eyes or won’t meet mine when I talk to her. I don’t remember the last time we had a solid conversation. Supposedly she loves me but she hasn’t said, “I love you Amolas” in a long time. It’s as if she stole her essence from me. Where’s the woman that dad talks about? Is she long gone? Or is she hiding behind something I don’t understand? Why is she worried about someone seeing my wings? What would happen?
The wind and my wings meet in happy union. Alive, alive in that moment and every moment that I fly is when I feel free and truly alive. The feel of the wind as it passes over and through each of my feathers feels soothing and relaxing as if tiny fingers are thread through my wings. The wind feels cool against my face and I can’t help but let out a whoop in the midst of this ultimate thrill. If anything, I know I was born to fly. No one can imagine the pleasure and privilege that comes with it. No wonder people dream about it. This is when I can truly be me. I am out of the world’s reach and pull. My favorite thing about flying is when the red wings join me in the sky. And a few have today, chirping along as if they are also expressing the joy that they feel deep down in their bones. It’s almost as if they’re leading my way, announcing my arrival as if I am some kind of king. I’m not, and would not want to be king of anything. Too much work and not my style, it is the last thing I want. I don’t want to be the center of attention; I’d rather not be forgotten, but not the focus either. That I am sure I get from my mom. Dad always tells me how much I take after her. Maybe that is why she is distant because she sees her flaws reflected in me and hates to be reminded of them. Who knows? Despite it all, I still love her. Dad too. Would I like to be completely accepted by her? Sure. Will it happen? That remains to be seen.
I begin my decent to the ground right before the tree line that hides my house from the rest of the woods. My feet rest on the leafy matter of autumn. Sigh, back to reality. I pull my wings in with a quick snap and toss my shirt and vest back on. At least I didn’t get caught this time.