Flight Feathers by Yasmeen Amro

A large tree in the middle of green woodland. Large white text reads: Flight of Feathers. Smaller text reads: Discussing disabled characters in fairy tales and folklore.

I’m 18 when I grow my flight feathers.
They itch and stem from my shoulder blades.
My mama rubs a towel onto my skin where the feathers have torn their way through me.
 I’m scared and shaking. I still don’t know why, don’t know how this is happening.
 
There’s a party for me. Mama cuts two slits in the back of my thobe. My thobe is a beautiful embroidered dress. I feel bad cutting it up.
We dance, all my female relatives, in thobes like mine, wings proudly jutting out from their backs.
My wings are small. There’s still room for them to grow. I spread them as much as I can, mimicking the way the other women move their wings.
We all dance with platters full of candles and flowers held on our heads. I take a platter and balance it the best I can with one hand while fan out my skirt with the other, bunching up the fabric.

Learning to fly is difficult, but I teach myself how to stay in the air pretty quickly.
When I fly, I imagine that everything below me belongs to me because I flew over it.
When I fly, I feel what little freedom I am afforded.
 
Flying is an exclusively female freedom. No men have grown wings.
I take great pride in my flight feathers. In the twin slits in the back of my thobe. In my wind-blown hair. Even the pain of molting. All the good and bad.
Wings are a rite of passage, and I have grown my flight feathers.

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About the author: 
Yasmeen Amro is a neurodivergent author with publications in Fusion Fragment and State of Matter. She enjoys reading, writing, and baking.