Jackie Maugh Robinson
Wings stored in an old warehouse that I took off when I was ten because my father said I didn't need them. He said the earth was good enough for me. Too long I hid within the shabby walls of this storage place of dreams and the un-dared risks and those wings. I made my floor-bed in the safe dust.
Today I bring my father here for a talk. He finally has to listen because he's dead. I tell him he abused my faith in his caring. That he sold me a counterfeit bill of goods. "Look at what's left of your selfish reign; see the grounded spirit you wouldn't teach to fly." Yeah, he looks all right...looks right through me. Then he says, "Hey, I'm dead. I don't have to try anymore."
At last he's given me something I can use. I see what's left of his dim, dull light shining on the best part of me that was never his. I see it reflecting off my discarded wings. Now when I slip them on, I'm not ten anymore and they've grown big enough to fit this size of me. They're strong enough to take me soaring above my father's small plot of ground.