An Ordinary Boy

A fascicle of feathers in my hand, hand frantic and shaking, my arm holding my hand as far away from my body as possible—I am disgusted. I cannot pull out the central stalks of my wings where they protrude from between my shoulder blades, but I can strip every tuft of feathers from them to bare those cartilaginous stems as they rise from my back, stalks stripped perfectly clean so as to better tuck them along my spine, hide them, make them invisible beneath my clothing. I was so foolish then, a teenager not yet able to accept what he was. When my wings blackened, withered, and fell off, I was beyond happy. They would stay dormant sometimes as long as three months. Sadly, they always came back. In the bathroom mirror, I can see myself offering a cluster of feathers to myself, as if to say: Take this from me and I will be forever grateful. But the me that is a trick of light on glass is uncaring, offers them back immediately. If I concentrate, if I think hard on it, I can move my wings, and I practice in the bathroom mirror. But these wings cannot support my weight, cannot buoy me on even a strong gust of wind. What good are wings if you cannot fly? What good is this ridiculous secret I am asked to keep? With the feathers ripped cleanly away, I tuck the stems along my spine. I bandage them down— cloth wound under my armpits, tightly wound around my chest. I fashion myself into an ordinary boy.