Unremarkable

My birth was unremarkable
except for the fact I was born
with wings.
Perfectly formed, angelic
in every classical sense.
As I grew, they grew with me.
During adolescence
I gained enough strength
to be able to outstretch them
to their full expanse.
My parents were enthralled,
standing before me,
my wings in feathered white.
I could see tears
fall down the cheeks
of my Mother, my Father
was rapt in his attention.
I bowed my head
and my face flushed red
in embarrassment.
I arched my wings behind me
and let them flap forward
twice, not enough to gain
clearance from the Earth,
but enough to billow wind.
I thought of my childhood
and the embarrassment
of being found out
by other children,
inevitably leading
to showing my wings
to those who could
see, but not comprehend me.
I could no longer hide,
I had to show the world
my true self
even as I struggled
to understand myself.
Doctors were confounded
by me, almost as much
as I was. Theories were
posited, pictures published
in peer reviewed journals
theorizing on the necessary
musculature to make
the impossible possible.
I was always terrified
to attempt flight.
When my Father died
I grieved
and let sorrow fill me
until I was a well
overflowing
with the uncontainable tides.
My Mother cried into my chest
until she could no longer cry
and I held her until
I could no longer hold her.
When she submitted
to a grief filled slumber
I walked outside
to the tree where
my Father would push me
on the swing he made.
I sat until I could no longer sit
and stood beneathe
the beautiful white face
beaming upon me.
My wings stretched out
and grasped the wind.
I could feel them beating
and beating until
at last
the ground became
the world beneathe me
as I soared above it
as Icarus dreamed
but could not realize.
I kissed the moon
and came back home
to the grief
that was waiting.