The air was cool and crisp. She entered the clearing in the middle of the grove where the snow shone brightly under the pale, overcast sky. Every snowflake glinted individually on the frozen ground, like shards of glass on a white tile floor. The barren branches of the grove boasted nothing but a shiny coat of white crystal dust like that on the ground. Rows upon rows of fragile icicles dripped onto the surface of the snowy blanket below, creating tiny, chime-like notes in the quiet air. This was what freedom felt like.
     The chilled wind whipping against her face reminded her of the cold, harsh chains that once held her down, now broken and rattling in the storm that she had created. The icicles slowly melted, then fell from their branches and shattered like glass the way the liquor bottle had done when she viciously tore it from her father’s hands and smashed it off of the tear-stained coffee table in that house that smelled so strongly of bourbon. The dripping trees reminded her of the alcohol raining down onto the scratched hard-wood floor, and the howling wind chilled her to the bone like the screams from her drunken father as he sent every beer bottle hurdling towards her in a fit of rage.
     An eagle circled overhead, its beautiful brown and white coat shining dimly up against the pale sky. She watched as a feather fell from the eagle’s breast, then slowly floated down through the air like a large snowflake. She thought about her mother, who had always been her wings. Mama would’ve wanted this freedom for me years ago. Her mother had always been a free spirit. “Go where the wind blows you, my little feather.” She could hear her light and dainty voice dancing around her in the wind. A bit stuck in the ‘60s, her mother believed full-heartedly in equality and freedom. Never once did she try to sway her daughter in any particular direction, always answering with a spiritual quote involving some metaphor about feathers or birds. But Mama flew away years ago, when she was but a young cardinal dressed in red.
     She’d always wondered why Mama left, until she ran away from her father and found her own freedom. Then she knew why: Daddy was like a chain, cold and hard on the ankles. Mama could teach her baby how to fly all she wanted, but Daddy was always there with more whiskey on his breath than in his flask, ready to tie her up again and break her, just had he had done to Mama when she’d earned her wings. I’d always thought Mama would’ve looked good with wings.