Open Doors

In the centre of my back I feel the pressure of something start to grow, like a hand sending me one way and not another. My skin has started to peel back, and white feathers peek out. I see them in the mirror, feel the stubble of the new ones when I lie down. I try not to toss and turn in case I disturb my feathers.

My wings are growing every day. As spring is approaching, I stare out of the window, willing for birdsong, for greenery, for the sun, to hear the rustle of my fully-grown wings. There is an ache in my bones when I see the sky: a calling, a compass growing on my back, wanting to take me home. I worry my heart fluttering inside my ribcage is too heavy for my wings to carry me, so I try to think about beautiful things like butterflies and birdsong, and sunny parks, and the swell of the sea.

Open windows.

Open doors.

 When my wings are fully grown, I’ll wrap them around me to keep me warm; they’ll shield me, so all I will see is white light and purity.

In the nest of my single bed, I dream of my new body making friends with the air, the sky, stroking it with the beat of my wings. I glimpse myself flying between the trees, touching the tips of canopies, my white plumage trailing and pure in the dappled light.

In the half-light of the early morning, though, I see only my thin shoulder blades casting shadows onto the wall. In the mirror, I see that my face has grown fierce and hard. There is no rustle of feathers or beat of wings. Ashes from my lost years and lost loved ones scatter around me; they keep settling. One day, I will be buried under them.

The pencil, a quill, a feather, a weapon. Only my pen writes compassion. Who or what will save me?

~ Louise Worthington

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