The Weight of Feathers

There is a specific grit to the air when the wind kicks up dust—a dry, chalky taste that settles at the back of the throat, reminding me of afternoons spent running until my lungs burned. I remember the frantic, soft thrum of wings against my palms, the way feathers feel like velvet stretched over hollow bone. It is a frantic, living pulse that vibrates right through your fingertips, a sudden rush of warmth that defies the stillness of the ground. We are taught to hold on, to grip the world tightly so it does not slip away, but there is a strange, hollow ache in the palms when the living thing finally decides to leave. We carry the phantom weight of those departures long after the sky has swallowed them whole. Does the body ever truly let go of the things it has once sheltered, or do we simply learn to live with the empty space where the heartbeat used to be?

Sanjiban Ghosh has captured this fleeting rhythm in his beautiful image titled Childhood Innocence. It reminds me of the sudden, wild flutter of life that we all once held in our hands. Can you still feel the ghost of those wings against your skin?