Flight

My sister flew, which is why my father hated her and not me. This is all that I can think

about, when the floating feeling wakes me up at night, how not even my mother believed in

her wings. How, when we were young, she flew down our long staircase wearing a witch hat

to tell me something I needed to know about my father, but she only got halfway down.

When she fell to the bottom of our stairs, there was nothing left to say. She laughed, I’m a

silly witch! Held her skinny arms out so I walked inside them, and we floated until we felt

safe. This has something to do with why I sit here staring at life from a distance, sipping liquor

near the dog. An angel doesn’t tell us what to believe. She sits guard near that childhood

staircase; almost here, almost there.