Flight, and flying, the test of spreading wings
made of gold and silver, then trusting them to
hold my weight. Using the heart for navigation.

Incantations and enchantment, and the knowledge
of spells not found in any book. We don’t
keep grimoires, for true magic is written upon
the brow, etched there by the sweat and tears
of loving. I am my grandmother’s memory,
she said. As you are mine.

That every gift must be returned
in kind, that raindrops and snowflakes
are a blessing, that my own power is not to be
trifled with.

Wherever you go, she said, remember:

You are enough.
You are enough.