Before bedtime, my aunt tells me, there’s a chance my Mama will be out of the hospital soon. The doctors tried out a few meds for her mixed-up brain and one seems to stick. That night I slept the hours away, images of Mama flying in the turquoise sky with the sunshine and the marshmallow clouds. She’s mighty, my Mama, and, oh, how she glides with the wind.
Something tugs at my chest then, in the cool, darkness of my bedroom, and I know. I know she’s my angel without the broken wings.
Something tugs at my chest then, in the cool, darkness of my bedroom, and I know. I know she’s my angel without the broken wings.
