Learning to Fly

“Mother? Name things that fly.”
Rhonda glances at twelve-year-old Carl. Sallow-skinned and sunken-eyed, she knows something is wrong. Still her temper flares. “You name things that fly. I don’t have time.” Of course she does. Right now she’s merely staring out their fifth floor apartment window.
“Birds,” Carl said. “Your turn.”
“Butterflies, lightning bugs, bats, kites . . . ” Anything to get Carl to go away.
“And planes.”
“Oh, I see. Your father’s not coming on a plane or anything else. Don’t you get it? He’s never loved you.”
Carl slumps to his room, opens the window and jumps. “And me. I can fly, too.”