When I was younger, I used to pretend I had wings. I would imagine soaring through the clouds, racing the sparrows and resting in the trees. This is one fancy that never left as I got older.
I have made up stories in which I suddenly discover the way to my true home. I have had dreams in which my true family appears to take me home. In each narrative, I have sprouted wings.
Sometimes I can feel them. I wake in the morning and stretch my arms above my head and phantom wings stretch behind my back. I get excited and there is a flutter. It feels so real that at times I reach back expecting to feel them only to be disappointed.
I am old enough to know better but a part of me still hopes to be able to fly one day.