Published- The Midnight Fawn Review, Issue 2, Fall 2024

I drifted on the precipice of consciousness. The throbbing pain lodged in my knees shifted as I lay face down on the massage table. Joints meant to propel me forward felt encased in cement. A gentle scent of lavender and vanilla could not chase away recent reminders of mortality that had dared step out from the shadows. I shivered in the recall of plunging into frigid rapids, choking on water as my kayak abandoned me to the undertow of the Lower Salt River, hands flailing, feet scrambling to avoid smashing into slick boulders. I felt my stomach clench, remembering the echo of cancer knocking on the door of my spouse, and released a bone-aching moan thinking of my sister’s near-death heart attack.

“Just let it all go,” a tender voice murmured.

Ethereal sounds of Tibetan singing bowls whirled around the tranquil room and seeped into my pores.

Warmth moved down my spine with each repetition of my masseuse’s long, steady strokes as I accepted her silent invitation to unclench my shoulder blades. The pads of her fingers nested into my winged scapula, nudging the release of tension before the cycle began again. Hands running down my back, stroking up and out along my shoulders, probing and coaxing each rigid muscle to soften.

Letting go of feeling connected to the earthly realm, I gave in to the caresses, no longer noticing the separateness of scent, sound, or touch. There was no space where I felt my body end and other objects begin.

Here, in this chasm, it occurred. With each sensation of my shoulders stroked and enticed to relax, like a movie playing behind my closed eyelids, I saw my fully feathered wings emerge.

The masseuse’s fingers traveled along my avian skeleton, fluffing each multicolored feather like separating petals on a flower. Her index finger nudged the base of the fine chocolate brown hairs, tracing them to their white-tipped edges where they fluttered against her breath.

I released an involuntary quiver. I felt my wings sway from side to side and shook loose a vision of an osprey gliding across the sky, her wings casting long silhouettes across the trees before perching in a pine at the water’s edge. Shifting from the stillness of observation, she released her talons from the branch and dove headfirst into the water. I held my breath. I focused on her, focusing on her goal. We shared a mutual will to survive.

Until now, I pushed myself to keep up, stay fit, and remain a mourner rather than the one mourned. I’ve already surpassed the ospreys average ten-year lifespan six times, but will I make it seven?

My masseuse continued to explore each feather by rubbing and nudging it to stretch and expand. She teased my resistance into submission with a promise of freedom.

Like a whisper rippled through the wind, I hear, “No matter your challenge, you can always fly.”

Perhaps, when I am ninety, this memory will resurface when my breath is sparse, and a cat kneads its paws rhythmically against my bony spine as others murmur at my bedside.

Will my wings be strong enough, then?