It is late, and I try to imagine what it would feel like to fly. In my mind, I spread my wings and leap from the window, flinging myself free from the Earth – separating myself from him.
I wonder if this is what Mom felt, in her last few moments atop the bridge. The wind whipping at her ankles, every passing car chanting for her to jump: to fly.
I wonder if Mom’s death was like falling asleep, with every thought of the wind and soaring fading away into a deep, eternal black.
This makes me long for death and, in a way, sleep grants me my wish – if only for a few hours.