One wing shorter than the other. Still, it flew. I folded what I had into something light— a small, lopsided shape that knew nothing of grace. I did not make it to be beautiful. I made it to let go. The edge of the road dropped into mist, and I opened my hand without a word. Not to prove something. Not to forget something. Only to watch the wind decide. Let it fall or let it rise. Let it catch the air or disappear. I am learning to release what was never mine to carry. There was a time when I would chase every falling thing, name every shadow, count every distance. But the sky does not ask where the small things land. It only gives them room. I did not see it land. I did not need to. The letting go was the whole journey, and the hand was lighter after. Let it fall or let it rise. Let it catch the air or disappear. I am learning to release what was never mine to carry. What was never mine to carry. Maybe that is how we heal— not by holding tighter, but by opening the hand and letting the wind know we tried. One wing shorter than the other. Still, it flew.
