W is for Wings (flash fiction)

He was always my boy. My beautiful boy. With his blond hair, his blue eyes and his petal-soft, peachy complexion.

'He'll never walk,' they told me. 'He'll never talk; never understand.'

'I know,' I said.

The fits were terrifying, twisting his tiny body, causing him agony.

'How do you know he feels anything?' they asked me.

'I'm his mother,' I told them. 'I know.'

He grew, my beautiful boy. One birthday, two, three. We had a cake with candles. But he never blew out his candles; never tasted his cake. We fed him through a tube.

'I think he smiled,' someone said.

'My boy doesn't smile,' I told her. 'He can't smile.'

Besides, what is there to smile about?

Today, he's going to look his best. I have dressed him in a white linen shirt and blue dungarees, with little patent shoes to match. My beautiful boy will never walk in those shoes, for he will never walk, but every child should have a first pair of shoes.

'This is a special day for you,' I tell him, 'A special day for both of us.'

We drive together to our favourite spot, with its view of sky and rocks and the churning ocean below.

'This is the place,' I tell him. 'Our place.'

I stand on the edge of the cliff, holding my boy close in my arms, and I jump.

My boy. My beautiful boy. Together we jump. And fly...