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Description
"Just one more piece," the man muttered. His tongue ran across his upper lip in concentration, skimming over the days worth of stubble that turned his chin a rough grey. His steady hands fumbled in front of him, enlarged by the thick pane of glass between his focused eyes and the table. With a click, the small brass object fit snugly into its place once again.

The man let out his long-held breath and fell against his chair. Through tired eyes, he squinted down at the creation in front of him, a weak smile bringing out a gasp of laughter.

"But will it fly, father?"

The man swiveled in his char, facing the empty doorway, and smiled at the young boy. "Will it fly?" he asked. "Why, of course it will, son!" He held out his arms and embraced his little golden son. "These wings will do anything you want." The man turned his chair back around, pushing the magnifying glass aside to reveal a set of brass wings, shining gold in the soft sunlight.

"Will they take me anywhere?"

"Anywhere," the father repeated in an excited whisper. "To London, to Paris, to China." He spun in his chair, grinning at the elated face before him. "You can fly up as high as you want. Climb to the tallest tree and float back down."

"Over and over again?"

The father smiled gently. "As many times as you want. They're yours."

"I like them, father."

The man smiled and looked over at the metal object that sat on his desk. The dents of the metal smoothed out carefully. The joints mended, the screws tightened. The setting sun caught the delicate engravings running up the edges of the delicate wings.

"I knew you would, son," he whispered hoarsely. He looked at the smiling face in his lap, touching the edges of its cheek, vainly trying to smooth down the stray hairs that never lay flat. His smile hesitated. "Oh, son, if only I could know how much you'd love these. If only they could fly."

Tears fell softly onto the picture in his hands.

"But they helped you fly," he choked out. "Helped you find mother, like you wanted." His sobs caught in his throat and he looked down again at that eternal smile. "And you have wings now. And they fly."

"I like your wings better."

The man set the picture down, hands trembling from the sorrow that still flooded his body. He picked up the wings with care, remembering the way they had shined so brightly; how swiftly they had flown. His eyes stared at the words, though his heart still refused to accept them.

"To Nicholas James Michaels, with love and care. May your smile still shine bright in heaven, and may your new wings fly.

"Are they mine, father? Did you make them for me?"

The man stood slowly, knees shaking and cracking from ill use. His fingers read over the engravings once more before reaching for the dim light. With the last of the golden sun lighting the room, he left.

Description
"Just one more piece," the man muttered. His tongue ran across his upper lip in concentration, skimming over the days worth of stubble that turned his chin a rough grey. His steady hands fumbled in front of him, enlarged by the thick pane of glass between his focused eyes and the table. With a click, the small brass object fit snugly into its place once again.

The man let out his long-held breath and fell against his chair. Through tired eyes, he squinted down at the creation in front of him, a weak smile bringing out a gasp of laughter.

"But will it fly, father?"

The man swiveled in his char, facing the empty doorway, and smiled at the young boy. "Will it fly?" he asked. "Why, of course it will, son!" He held out his arms and embraced his little golden son. "These wings will do anything you want." The man turned his chair back around, pushing the magnifying glass aside to reveal a set of brass wings, shining gold in the soft sunlight.

"Will they take me anywhere?"

"Anywhere," the father repeated in an excited whisper. "To London, to Paris, to China." He spun in his chair, grinning at the elated face before him. "You can fly up as high as you want. Climb to the tallest tree and float back down."

"Over and over again?"

The father smiled gently. "As many times as you want. They're yours."

"I like them, father."

The man smiled and looked over at the metal object that sat on his desk. The dents of the metal smoothed out carefully. The joints mended, the screws tightened. The setting sun caught the delicate engravings running up the edges of the delicate wings.

"I knew you would, son," he whispered hoarsely. He looked at the smiling face in his lap, touching the edges of its cheek, vainly trying to smooth down the stray hairs that never lay flat. His smile hesitated. "Oh, son, if only I could know how much you'd love these. If only they could fly."

Tears fell softly onto the picture in his hands.

"But they helped you fly," he choked out. "Helped you find mother, like you wanted." His sobs caught in his throat and he looked down again at that eternal smile. "And you have wings now. And they fly."

"I like your wings better."

The man set the picture down, hands trembling from the sorrow that still flooded his body. He picked up the wings with care, remembering the way they had shined so brightly; how swiftly they had flown. His eyes stared at the words, though his heart still refused to accept them.

"To Nicholas James Michaels, with love and care. May your smile still shine bright in heaven, and may your new wings fly.

"Are they mine, father? Did you make them for me?"

The man stood slowly, knees shaking and cracking from ill use. His fingers read over the engravings once more before reaching for the dim light. With the last of the golden sun lighting the room, he left.