Fly Me
By Laura Leigh Morris
“Fly me.” My son fingers the tips of my wings. They came in after he was born, along with my milk and constipation and hemorrhoids. Since they first sprouted, they’ve become monstrous—a seven-foot wingspan when fully spread, though I rarely expand them to their full glory.
We sit on a blanket at the park, our morning ritual. He pulls a fist of cheerios from a snack cup, presses them against his mouth. Half fall to the ground.
“I can’t,” I say, not for the first time. He runs the flat of his hand down the burnt red feathers. His touch tickles, and I pull the wings close to my body. “Don’t touch,” I say.
He whines, so I hand him a juice box, say, “Drink.”
He does, then rubs a feather between two fingers.
“Doesn’t that cloud look like a puppy?”
“Where?” He releases me.
I point at a cloud that looks like a blob.
He squints, cocks his head to the side. “I can’t see.”
“What do you think it looks like?”
And then he’s off, pointing out a bunny-shaped cloud, one that looks like a t-rex with wispy arms. I lean back on my elbows, careful to keep my wings pulled tight. Sometimes, it exhausts me, keeping them constrained all day. By evening, my back muscles cramp and spasm. Once my son is asleep, I lie facedown in the living room, muscles relaxed, wings blanketing me, and my husband massages the connections between my spinal column and wings. I close my eyes, head turned from him, and imagine the day when I can drop my son at school and come to this same park alone. Then, I’ll spread the blanket on the ground and extend my wings before flying so high the air thins and I forget that none of my clothes fit. I’ll fly in circles above the trees, look down to see one shaped like a puppy, one shaped like a bunny, still another like a t-rex with wispy arms.
My son lays his head on my belly, his pillow, he calls it. Once, he asked why it was so squishy, and I said, “I made you there, and then it turned into a place for you to rest.” Another time, he poked a finger at my low-slung breasts as I got out of the shower, told me they looked funny, and I told him they look like that because they fed him milk when he was a baby. His eyes widened.
But the wings, they are mine. I could fly him, could lift us from this blanket, take him so high he could feel the mist of the clouds, could lift his arms into the air, say, “Mommy, I’m touching the bunny!” Instead, I run my fingers through his hair as he lies on my soft tummy, placing cheerios on his tongue one at a time, sucking on them until they turn into mush, naming the animals in the sky.
THE END
Author Bio: Laura Leigh Morris is the author of “The Stone Catchers: A Novel” (2024) and “Jaws of Life: Stories” (2018). She's previously published short fiction in STORY Magazine, North American Review, The Florida Review, and other journals. She teaches creative writing and literature at Furman University in Greenville, SC. To learn more, visit www.lauraleighmorris.com.