A shot of whisky
They were removed without question, with a startlingly brisk efficiency, as she snipped the umbilical cord. It was for the best but tortuously painful. Our joint cries rose up into the room and seemingly strengthened the maternal bond.
I wondered where they were as I fed him that night in the hospital bed. Watching thin feathered wisps of smoke from the incinerator soar across the city skyline. I hoped they’d given them to someone who needed a pair.
Two years later. He was back there.
He never saw the sky again and I never got my wings back.
About the Author
Lisa Williams. Domestic slattern. Obsessive reader.
Published 05 May 2016