The wings arrive on the morning of my mother’s funeral, so they stay in their box until after. Her friends from the bingo are the last to leave. They are so sorry, god bless, take care, goodbye.
Mother, three hours buried, stands shadow-grey in the corner of the living room, flowery pinny over the black dress I chose.
‘Look at the mess they made, Gretchen. You’ll want to get the hoover out.’
I bring out the box, slide it open. Mother tuts.
‘What do you want those for?’
The wings are made of thousands of white feathers, stitched with silver thread.
‘Are you listening to me?’
I run my hands along their softness. They smell of winter gorse and moonlight.
‘You’ve responsibilities, Gretchen. What about your father?’
Daddy, next door in the marital bed, sleeping off the wake.
‘You know how he is.’
I do know how he is. I pull the wings onto my back.
‘I’d put them back in the box, if you know what’s good for you.’
I snap the buckle on the harness. Flex my arms. A breeze wafts the pages of the Radio Times on the sideboard.
'Gretchen, for God’s sake. Pack it in.’
On the balcony the cold evening air makes my teeth ache. Down below, teeny, tiny bingo ladies huddle at the bus-stop. Earlier they asked if I would join them. They said I’d fit right in.
I haul myself onto the railing.
‘Your Daddy will want his dinner: Monday is mash and pie.’ Her voice is tissue-thin.
One of my shoes spins to the distant concrete like a sycamore seed. I stretch my arms wide.
‘You’ll fall, Gretchen. You know you will.’
‘That’s what you think, Mother,’ I say, and step out.
—A longer version of this story was originally published in And We Lived Happily Ever After: National Flash Fiction Day Anthology 2022
tragically lovely.
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