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.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Saturday, April 11, 2009
What may have happened at the park
I reach the park. The smell of rain warns of an impending storm. The swings move back and forth, as if the ghosts of small children have decided to play. That is except for the last swing. “This is where we first met,” her voice soft, almost inaudible.
I don’t answer, but sit down in the swing beside her, displacing any ghost child that may have been there.
“We’ve known each other our whole lives, and I have never seen your eyes.” She says.
I touch my sunglasses; I feel them cool against my finger tips. I long to shed them, I am sick of hiding behind them.
“Let me see your eyes,” she says. There is desperation in her voice. As if seeing my eyes will reveal the secret of the world.
“Are you sure?” I don’t care anymore. I don’t care what my parents think.
Kristen nods, her head moving like a bobble head.
I reach for my sunglasses and then stop. “Are you sure?” I begin to quiver.
“Yes.”
“You do it.” I try to swallow down the lump in my throat. Fingertips brush up against my face and slide my glasses off. My eyes are shut tight.
“Amolas, there is nothing to be afraid of,” Kristen whispers, “Look me in the eyes.”
I open them.
I don’t answer, but sit down in the swing beside her, displacing any ghost child that may have been there.
“We’ve known each other our whole lives, and I have never seen your eyes.” She says.
I touch my sunglasses; I feel them cool against my finger tips. I long to shed them, I am sick of hiding behind them.
“Let me see your eyes,” she says. There is desperation in her voice. As if seeing my eyes will reveal the secret of the world.
“Are you sure?” I don’t care anymore. I don’t care what my parents think.
Kristen nods, her head moving like a bobble head.
I reach for my sunglasses and then stop. “Are you sure?” I begin to quiver.
“Yes.”
“You do it.” I try to swallow down the lump in my throat. Fingertips brush up against my face and slide my glasses off. My eyes are shut tight.
“Amolas, there is nothing to be afraid of,” Kristen whispers, “Look me in the eyes.”
I open them.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Starting From the Beginning
I guess it would be best if I were to start from the beginning:
Ten minutes until class and she is still chattering away like a magpie. I can’t hear her. Her mouth opens and closes like a kid imitating a goldfish. Her sooty black hair tickles the tops of her shoulders as she speaks. I just can’t pay attention on what she is saying. We’re sitting on the stairs leading to one of the older buildings. A brick structure with tiny windows that’s hardly ever used. The other buildings, also brick, are set in a horseshoe shape around the basketball court and parking lot. We’re killing time as usual before class, but today I just can’t focus on what she is saying to me.
Maybe it’s the thought of Alex and his pals bugging me like they’ve done since elementary school. Or what my parents said to me last night. I think it’s the latter. I start to feel my sunglasses slide down my nose and I push them back into place before she sees my eyes. Hers are brown like a leaf in late autumn. I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s her and I nod as if I am listening. At least I’m trying to. My parents weren’t too happy with me. They caught me flying again.
Mom said she wishes that I had been normal and she blames my father’s genes for what she calls my “mutation”. Dad’s grandfather is the only other member of the family that has the same condition. It’s also where I get my namesake from.
“I’ll see you later, Amolas.” I shake myself and watch her slim form disappear behind the graffitied concrete stairs.
I run my hands through my raven colored hair. I get that from my mom. It’s the only thing she admits claim is from her.
Both my parents want to make sure no one discovers my secret. But when you have wings, the desire to fly is great. And I’m not just talking about wishing that you could fly. My wings aren’t difficult to hide. I can pull them easily into my back but I still avoid anything that involves me removing my shirt. Kristen has gotten mad at me when I turn down invitations to go swimming at her house. If I relax, my wings come out. They usually do when I sleep. When I was young, I wasn’t allowed to go over to anyone’s house. Ever. Turning down invitations to birthday parties, sleepovers, and play dates made me lonely. Kids thought I was weird. Soon enough no one even wanted to talk to me, except Kristen.
I have to wear sunglasses all the time. I’ve gotten used to even wearing them at night. My parents don’t like to see my eyes. It makes them uncomfortable. My eyes are bird like – pale yellow “different”. Only one person beside my parents has seen them and I’ve never heard the end of it. My parents claim that my eyes are sensitive to light to avoid answering any questions about why I wear sunglasses all the time.
“Hey Amolas,” Alex yells.
I should have gone to class. Why didn’t I go? Why didn’t I follow Kristen to class? “What?” I snap back.
“I need you to do something for me,” He says. I don’t see him but I can only picture the smile on his face.
“What?” I tug at my vest and climb down the stairs to face him.
“Show them your eyes,” Alex says, he runs his fingers through his greasy sand colored hair. I wonder if he ever washes it. Amusement dances in Alex’s jade eyes.
“Hell no,” I say, “We have an agreement.” Alex is the one who saw my eyes when we were in elementary school. My parents talked to him. I don’t know exactly what was said, but he agreed not to tell anyone. Plus most people would think he was crazy or that he made it up.
“I thought that you’d say something like that,” he laughed.
“Why are you doing this?” We used to be close before he saw my eyes.
He smirks and his two friends, both red heads, identical twins actually, appear from behind him. They all circle me and spitting like a pack of goaded llamas.
The late bell rang and the remaining students scattered. We were alone. If there is one positive thing about wearing shades all the time is that no one can see your eyes. It’s easier to hide that you’re scared when no one sees your fear. The red heads strike out like snakes each grabbing one of my arms, pinning me to the concrete stairs. The stairs scrape at my back. Alex’s expression reminds me of a cat that is pleased with himself having caught his prey. Why do I have to be the mouse? Alex is normally a nice person and he even volunteers as a lifeguard at the local pool. But I’m the one that’s the victim to his dark side.
In the moment, before Alex reached for my glasses, I wished that I could be out on the playground, the one we loved as kids. I feel guilty deceiving Kristen for so long. It hasn’t been easy, but I have learned all the tricks when it comes to hiding what I really am. But she’s always been suspicious. So why can’t I tell her? What am I afraid of?
“Come on, show your secret. Don’t be a chicken shit” Alex says, “I’ll give you another chance to do it on your own.”
“Why? Why do you care?”
Mr. White, a tall and balding English teacher with steel blue eyes appears. “Hey! Get to class!” At the moment he is my savior.
“Next time.” Alex mouths from behind Mr. White. Alex’s pointed finger looks like a gun aimed at me.
“You too Amolas,” Mr. White says, he gives me the teacher look and I head off to class.
***
I didn’t see Kristen for the rest of the day. Her usual seat beside me is as empty as a freshly robbed vault. No one is willing to tell me where she is either. A field trip? No, I would know about that. Did she go home sick? No, she seemed healthy this morning. At least my mind is on her and not what happened this morning. I rub my face trying to get myself focused on class. It fails. Alex turns and glares at me from the front row. Why does he want to show people my secret? I just want to get out. It’s getting hard to breathe and I don’t have Kristen to distract me. Last class of the day and I am nearest to the door. I think I can make it.
Math seems irrelevant to my life right now. Formulas have conquered the blackboard that isn’t really black at all but green. I look at my notebook and the page is still clean as snow. Kristen usually takes all our notes and I copy them later. Freedom is the sound of the bell that announces the end of school.
I tell myself “Run, run.” If I can make it to the parking lot, I’ll be home free. As long as Dad’s there like he is supposed to be. Like a blur, I’m standing in front of my Dad’s beat-up Chevy. Mom never picks me up. I feel the pressure of a hand on my shoulder and know it’s Alex.
“Just you wait.” He breathes in my ear. I freeze in place until I know he is gone.
“How was your day?” Dad asks when I get in.
I let the click of the buckle be my response for the moment.
“That bad?” He asks.
I still don’t answer.
“Tomorrow will be better,” he says as he begins the drive home.
“No it won’t Dad.”
“The boy finally speaks,” Dad says almost laughing.
“No it won’t Dad. Tomorrow isn’t going to be any better than today.” I look out the window staring at the blurred scenery.
“What happened?” Dad rubs his salt and peppered hair.
“Are you and Mom ashamed of me?” I ask.
I don’t see my dad’s reaction, but the car swerves for a moment. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“We love you just the way you are,” My dad speaks the classic parental response.
“Why does mom hardly ever talk to me? Or doesn’t pick me up from school? Or take me anywhere?”
I can see my dad struggling with how to answer my questions.
“Dad? Is it that hard to answer me?” I look at him, but he keeps his eyes trained on the road.
“I can’t tell you.” He lets out a sigh he had been holding in.
“Dad, come on.”
“She loves you.”
“Dad.” I take my sunglasses off. “Is it because of this,” I say, pointing to my eyes.
“Amolas.” My dad looks at me for a moment. I know I am upsetting him, but I don’t care.
“Or maybe my wings?”
“Amolas.”
“Dad, stop the car,” I say.
“We should talk about this.”
“No, I don’t want to.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Stop the car, I’ll walk home.”
Dad’s sigh sounds defeated. Then we slow to a stop. I slam the door letting the sound swallow anything else my dad may say.
I do what I always do. I head to the park.
***
I reach the park. The smell of rain warns of an impending storm. The swings move back and forth, as if the ghosts of small children have decided to play. That is except for the last swing. “This is where we first met,” her voice soft, almost inaudible.
I don’t answer, but sit down in the swing beside her, displacing any ghost child that may have been there. “We’ve known each other our whole lives, and I have never seen your eyes.” She says.
I touch my sunglasses; I feel them cool against my finger tips. I long to shed them and show her but I can’t.
“Let me see your eyes,” she says. There is desperation in her voice. As if seeing my eyes will reveal the secret of the world.
“I can’t—” I stare at my high tops, avoiding her eyes completely.
“There you go again.” She sounds defeated.
I reach for my sunglasses and then stop. “Why did you leave school,” I say, attempting to change the subject.
“My mother is in the hospital and I just couldn’t stay,” Kristen says, staring off in to the woods that surround the outskirts of the park.
“What?” I reach to touch her, she moves. I watch her pump her legs in and out, rising higher and higher, as if she was the one who could fly. I copy her movements. “Is she alright?”
“I might be leaving to visit her. I haven’t seen her since dad and her—”
“Separated,” I say finishing her sentence.
She drags her feet in the dirt, slowing herself down in response.
“Is your mother ok?” I ask. I can see her struggling to fight back the tears as a dam might try to stop a flood.
“They’re not sure,” she whispers in between deep breaths.
“You’re going all the way to California to see her?” My heart feels like it’s going to explode.
The dam breaks and I wrap my arms around her. We sit there for what seems like hours but it’s only been a few minutes. Her eyes are clouded and her cheeks are stained. I hold her face in my hands and wipe away her tears.
“I should go. I don’t know when I will see you next.” With a hug and a whispered thank you, she is gone.
I’m left alone once again. Rain begins to fall a little as if it were a timid mouse. Then more as if the heavens decided to give everything they’ve got. I remove my sunglasses, exposing my downcast yellow eyes. I know it’s the worst time to fly, but I don’t care. I begin to pull my soaking wet shirt off. It sucks at my skin like suction cups. I stretch my wings toward the sky. I want to tell her, but I can’t. Not yet.
Ten minutes until class and she is still chattering away like a magpie. I can’t hear her. Her mouth opens and closes like a kid imitating a goldfish. Her sooty black hair tickles the tops of her shoulders as she speaks. I just can’t pay attention on what she is saying. We’re sitting on the stairs leading to one of the older buildings. A brick structure with tiny windows that’s hardly ever used. The other buildings, also brick, are set in a horseshoe shape around the basketball court and parking lot. We’re killing time as usual before class, but today I just can’t focus on what she is saying to me.
Maybe it’s the thought of Alex and his pals bugging me like they’ve done since elementary school. Or what my parents said to me last night. I think it’s the latter. I start to feel my sunglasses slide down my nose and I push them back into place before she sees my eyes. Hers are brown like a leaf in late autumn. I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s her and I nod as if I am listening. At least I’m trying to. My parents weren’t too happy with me. They caught me flying again.
Mom said she wishes that I had been normal and she blames my father’s genes for what she calls my “mutation”. Dad’s grandfather is the only other member of the family that has the same condition. It’s also where I get my namesake from.
“I’ll see you later, Amolas.” I shake myself and watch her slim form disappear behind the graffitied concrete stairs.
I run my hands through my raven colored hair. I get that from my mom. It’s the only thing she admits claim is from her.
Both my parents want to make sure no one discovers my secret. But when you have wings, the desire to fly is great. And I’m not just talking about wishing that you could fly. My wings aren’t difficult to hide. I can pull them easily into my back but I still avoid anything that involves me removing my shirt. Kristen has gotten mad at me when I turn down invitations to go swimming at her house. If I relax, my wings come out. They usually do when I sleep. When I was young, I wasn’t allowed to go over to anyone’s house. Ever. Turning down invitations to birthday parties, sleepovers, and play dates made me lonely. Kids thought I was weird. Soon enough no one even wanted to talk to me, except Kristen.
I have to wear sunglasses all the time. I’ve gotten used to even wearing them at night. My parents don’t like to see my eyes. It makes them uncomfortable. My eyes are bird like – pale yellow “different”. Only one person beside my parents has seen them and I’ve never heard the end of it. My parents claim that my eyes are sensitive to light to avoid answering any questions about why I wear sunglasses all the time.
“Hey Amolas,” Alex yells.
I should have gone to class. Why didn’t I go? Why didn’t I follow Kristen to class? “What?” I snap back.
“I need you to do something for me,” He says. I don’t see him but I can only picture the smile on his face.
“What?” I tug at my vest and climb down the stairs to face him.
“Show them your eyes,” Alex says, he runs his fingers through his greasy sand colored hair. I wonder if he ever washes it. Amusement dances in Alex’s jade eyes.
“Hell no,” I say, “We have an agreement.” Alex is the one who saw my eyes when we were in elementary school. My parents talked to him. I don’t know exactly what was said, but he agreed not to tell anyone. Plus most people would think he was crazy or that he made it up.
“I thought that you’d say something like that,” he laughed.
“Why are you doing this?” We used to be close before he saw my eyes.
He smirks and his two friends, both red heads, identical twins actually, appear from behind him. They all circle me and spitting like a pack of goaded llamas.
The late bell rang and the remaining students scattered. We were alone. If there is one positive thing about wearing shades all the time is that no one can see your eyes. It’s easier to hide that you’re scared when no one sees your fear. The red heads strike out like snakes each grabbing one of my arms, pinning me to the concrete stairs. The stairs scrape at my back. Alex’s expression reminds me of a cat that is pleased with himself having caught his prey. Why do I have to be the mouse? Alex is normally a nice person and he even volunteers as a lifeguard at the local pool. But I’m the one that’s the victim to his dark side.
In the moment, before Alex reached for my glasses, I wished that I could be out on the playground, the one we loved as kids. I feel guilty deceiving Kristen for so long. It hasn’t been easy, but I have learned all the tricks when it comes to hiding what I really am. But she’s always been suspicious. So why can’t I tell her? What am I afraid of?
“Come on, show your secret. Don’t be a chicken shit” Alex says, “I’ll give you another chance to do it on your own.”
“Why? Why do you care?”
Mr. White, a tall and balding English teacher with steel blue eyes appears. “Hey! Get to class!” At the moment he is my savior.
“Next time.” Alex mouths from behind Mr. White. Alex’s pointed finger looks like a gun aimed at me.
“You too Amolas,” Mr. White says, he gives me the teacher look and I head off to class.
***
I didn’t see Kristen for the rest of the day. Her usual seat beside me is as empty as a freshly robbed vault. No one is willing to tell me where she is either. A field trip? No, I would know about that. Did she go home sick? No, she seemed healthy this morning. At least my mind is on her and not what happened this morning. I rub my face trying to get myself focused on class. It fails. Alex turns and glares at me from the front row. Why does he want to show people my secret? I just want to get out. It’s getting hard to breathe and I don’t have Kristen to distract me. Last class of the day and I am nearest to the door. I think I can make it.
Math seems irrelevant to my life right now. Formulas have conquered the blackboard that isn’t really black at all but green. I look at my notebook and the page is still clean as snow. Kristen usually takes all our notes and I copy them later. Freedom is the sound of the bell that announces the end of school.
I tell myself “Run, run.” If I can make it to the parking lot, I’ll be home free. As long as Dad’s there like he is supposed to be. Like a blur, I’m standing in front of my Dad’s beat-up Chevy. Mom never picks me up. I feel the pressure of a hand on my shoulder and know it’s Alex.
“Just you wait.” He breathes in my ear. I freeze in place until I know he is gone.
“How was your day?” Dad asks when I get in.
I let the click of the buckle be my response for the moment.
“That bad?” He asks.
I still don’t answer.
“Tomorrow will be better,” he says as he begins the drive home.
“No it won’t Dad.”
“The boy finally speaks,” Dad says almost laughing.
“No it won’t Dad. Tomorrow isn’t going to be any better than today.” I look out the window staring at the blurred scenery.
“What happened?” Dad rubs his salt and peppered hair.
“Are you and Mom ashamed of me?” I ask.
I don’t see my dad’s reaction, but the car swerves for a moment. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“We love you just the way you are,” My dad speaks the classic parental response.
“Why does mom hardly ever talk to me? Or doesn’t pick me up from school? Or take me anywhere?”
I can see my dad struggling with how to answer my questions.
“Dad? Is it that hard to answer me?” I look at him, but he keeps his eyes trained on the road.
“I can’t tell you.” He lets out a sigh he had been holding in.
“Dad, come on.”
“She loves you.”
“Dad.” I take my sunglasses off. “Is it because of this,” I say, pointing to my eyes.
“Amolas.” My dad looks at me for a moment. I know I am upsetting him, but I don’t care.
“Or maybe my wings?”
“Amolas.”
“Dad, stop the car,” I say.
“We should talk about this.”
“No, I don’t want to.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Stop the car, I’ll walk home.”
Dad’s sigh sounds defeated. Then we slow to a stop. I slam the door letting the sound swallow anything else my dad may say.
I do what I always do. I head to the park.
***
I reach the park. The smell of rain warns of an impending storm. The swings move back and forth, as if the ghosts of small children have decided to play. That is except for the last swing. “This is where we first met,” her voice soft, almost inaudible.
I don’t answer, but sit down in the swing beside her, displacing any ghost child that may have been there. “We’ve known each other our whole lives, and I have never seen your eyes.” She says.
I touch my sunglasses; I feel them cool against my finger tips. I long to shed them and show her but I can’t.
“Let me see your eyes,” she says. There is desperation in her voice. As if seeing my eyes will reveal the secret of the world.
“I can’t—” I stare at my high tops, avoiding her eyes completely.
“There you go again.” She sounds defeated.
I reach for my sunglasses and then stop. “Why did you leave school,” I say, attempting to change the subject.
“My mother is in the hospital and I just couldn’t stay,” Kristen says, staring off in to the woods that surround the outskirts of the park.
“What?” I reach to touch her, she moves. I watch her pump her legs in and out, rising higher and higher, as if she was the one who could fly. I copy her movements. “Is she alright?”
“I might be leaving to visit her. I haven’t seen her since dad and her—”
“Separated,” I say finishing her sentence.
She drags her feet in the dirt, slowing herself down in response.
“Is your mother ok?” I ask. I can see her struggling to fight back the tears as a dam might try to stop a flood.
“They’re not sure,” she whispers in between deep breaths.
“You’re going all the way to California to see her?” My heart feels like it’s going to explode.
The dam breaks and I wrap my arms around her. We sit there for what seems like hours but it’s only been a few minutes. Her eyes are clouded and her cheeks are stained. I hold her face in my hands and wipe away her tears.
“I should go. I don’t know when I will see you next.” With a hug and a whispered thank you, she is gone.
I’m left alone once again. Rain begins to fall a little as if it were a timid mouse. Then more as if the heavens decided to give everything they’ve got. I remove my sunglasses, exposing my downcast yellow eyes. I know it’s the worst time to fly, but I don’t care. I begin to pull my soaking wet shirt off. It sucks at my skin like suction cups. I stretch my wings toward the sky. I want to tell her, but I can’t. Not yet.
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