When I was little, I could fly

June 8, 1997 6:15PM, Sunday

We were watching the tube, Mom and I. A girl with blond hair and blue eyes was flapping her wings. She’s lovely, said I. And Mom had a teeny-weeny tear sliding down her cheek. The right one. Give me a hug, baby. And a kiss, darling. I have a millstone around my neck. You were once like her. An angel. Unmitigated perfection. With the blond hair, the blue eyes, and the white, white wings. Only more beautiful, long, real live wings. The real McCoy. I could fly. I flew from blossom to blossom, from bosom to bosom when I was little, she said. I could actually fly when I was little! Now I know, after sixteen years lived in blessed benightedness. But we had you turned into a human being. Not an angel anymore. Not anymore. That explains the orifices on my back. Look, you would have been ostracized, considered a freak. I, an angel and a freak. No Saturday nights. No Prince Charming for you, Cinderella. No friends to go carousing with. Too numinous to be in a social class. Too high a price to pay for a supernumerary benediction. Better to be just one of the nincompoops. Besides, you would have spent your damned existence in a laboratory. Better a nincompoop than a mere specimen under a microscope. At least, in slumber, I still have my wings. There, I join the other cherubim. What a divine name. Cherubim. I really would have wanted to soar, to have done some hovering in space. Gained some mastery up there. Would have wanted to display a flair for transcending mediocrity. Sorry, Mom, but no kisses for you right now. Good night.