Wings

When I was young(er), I used to imagine what my wings would look like when I got to heaven. Big? Small? Fluffy? Sleek? But one thing I knew, from all the pictures I’d seen, was that they’d be white. And for a while, I was okay with this. Everybody’s wings were white. But, as time went on, I started to think about it. White didn’t really match my skin tone, my hair, or my eyes. If I were to have wings that matched who I was, they wouldn’t be white.

So instead, I started to think of the wings I wanted.

Big.

Sleek.

Beautiful.

And they wouldn’t be white.

They would be a deep, dark brown, almost black.

But when the light hit them just right, they’d glow with threads of copper and gold.

I don’t know if we’ll get wings when we get to heaven; at least, the wings we imagine, made of flesh and feathers. I don’t know if we’ll fly, or float. I don’t know whether we’ll all have the same wings, or if they’ll reflect who we were, and who we are.

All I know is this.

If, by any prayer or supplication, we can put in a request for what they look like, I’d like mine to be exactly they way I’ve described. And I’d like to be able to fly.

Frankly me,

Dagenn

 

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