A Prose With No Direction

i, too, was a bird

I lie down on my patio this time, back laid against the hard, smooth wooden floor. 

I look up towards the blue sky, a vast ocean of baby blue with cotton shreds here and there. 

I see birds fly high in the sky, some with small wings while others with wings too big to not be heavy. While each bird is different, each bird flying differently and flying in different directions, no matter their differences, they all have one thing in common.

They're reaching heights I know I can never reach.

I, too, was once a bird.

I watch and watch and watch as they soar, some in groups of five to ten while others are lone pilots. But no matter their differences, they all have one thing in common.

They're reaching heights I know I can never reach.

But I, too, was once a bird.

I close my eyes.

.

.

.

.

.

There's a little girl that stands on the same porch I lie down on. She looks out at a distance, her eyes looking at something too far for me to see. She has a longing look in her eyes, a look where voice and movement are trapped and only the eyes can run free. She has that look.

The same look I've seen in someone before.

This girl, small in height, tiny in stature, has wings. Big, black wings, about three times her size, that droop low behind her. They look heavy, at least a hundred pounds worth of meat and feathers on each side. They look too heavy for her, too much of a burden for her.

Yet, she carries them anyway.

I sit up on the porch, legs crisscrossed as weight leans on one hand on the floor. 

"You have really pretty wings," I tell her.

The little girl looks at me, her eyes giving a longing look. Nothing moves but her neck and eyes and lips. She doesn't move an inch, making her seem like a mannequin. But I think it's her wings, wings that are too heavy for such a small, fragile being, that confine her to stillness. 

"Thank you," she says with a smile too stretched out to be real. "I made them myself."

I glance at the wings that trail behind her. "Aren't they too big for you?"

She shakes her head. "They said the bigger the wings, the higher you fly."

"But you're not flying, are you?" I answer. "You're just standing."

"I'm still learning how to fly," she responds, little movements of up-and-down coming from the balls of her foot. One can tell her's trying to fly, the wings twitching at her effort. 

But the wings are just too heavy.

"You can never fly like that," I tell her, standing up to help her.

I touch her wings.

"No!" She yells at me, eyes glaring. "Don't touch them!"

I look at her, surprised. "I'm just trying to help you."

"I don't need help," she snaps. "A little birdie doesn't ask help from its Mommy to learn how to fly. It just flies. If it falls, then it'll learn how to pick itself up and try again. I don't need your help, Missy."