The Wings Were Always There

What if… the thing you’ve been searching for was tucked inside you the whole time?

We left off in memory.

We return in breath.

This isn’t a new chapter.

It’s the same wind.

Let’s keep walking.

This story moved through me in two waves.

The first wave was thrift store whispers, memory sparks, and legacy coats.

This second wave?

It’s where the story lifts.

Where it remembers.

Where I remember.

Because memory doesn’t come all at once.

It arrives like breath. Like wings unfolding.

Photo by Duncan Sanchez on Unsplash

She moved with the kind of strength that left generations in awe—

the kind of strength she and my grandfather had to wear like armor,

pushing through every closed door that tried to spin them back around.

They weren’t allowed to fold.

So they carried.

Carried family, carried grief, carried community.

My grandmother wasn’t loud.

But her presence? It shifted air.

She held structure the way buildings do—quietly, faithfully, unshaken.

I used to hug her so often—probably more than she expected.

But the truth is… I wasn’t just hugging her.

I was trying to find the wings.

I was always convinced she had them—

folded so neatly beneath her sweater

that no one could see the latch but me.

I thought that if I hugged her enough,

if I paid close enough attention,

if I stayed near enough to her breath,

I’d find the release point.

And I’d get to see her fly.

I never did.- Or did I?

Photo by Artificial Photography on Unsplash

But there I was—

in the thrift store,

coat in hand,

memory surging forward like an altar breaking open—

and I felt it.

That stretch between my shoulders.

That familiar ache I’ve always carried.

The one that feels a lot like readiness.

Two Things Were Happening at Once

I was standing there, being taught by a stranger

about Mongolian fur and covered buttons and 1960s structure—

and I was also standing next to my grandmother.

Clear as day.

Holding her hand.

Looking up at her in her own sacred coat.

Two things were happening at once.

Memory and moment.

The past and the now.

And the sacred?

She always knows how to multitask.

I come from women who made room.

In their homes.

In their hands.

In their Sunday service purses.

They folded napkins with grace,

handled grief with prayer,

sowed seeds into braided hair,

and still had peppermints in their pockets just in case.

🍬👛🧣

They weren’t just wearing coats.

They were wearing armor.

Coverings worn by women who ran businesses, fed communities, and held it all together—when the country absolutely did not.

👀

Sound familiar? 2025, anyone?

A country that won’t care for us,

but still expects us to save it?

Ask the Smithsonian.

Ask your Auntie.

Ask your own mirror.

Photo by laura adai on Unsplash

The New Grandmother Steps Forward

Fast forward—

I’m the grandmother now.

I’m the one with the coat.

With the extra sandwich.

With the presence that doesn’t ask to be known, but is felt anyway.

I’m the one people lean on.

The one who knows how to pack grief in a bag and still leave space for snacks and softness.

The one who can hold what’s breaking and still bless the room.

So maybe—just maybe—

if I can do half of what she did,

if I can feed who needs feeding,

protect what needs protecting,

and hug those who don’t even know they’re searching for their wings—

The truth is- I didn’t discover anything new.

I just caught up to the truth she carried all along.

The latch was never hidden.

The wings were never out of sight.

It’s true- she was an angel.

It wasn’t my job to find the latch—

it was hers to pass it to me.

And sometimes, when it’s quiet enough,

when my breath is in alignment,

when equity and justice need to be served—

I hear the click.

Not because I found it.

Because I was prepared—

ready to carry it.

I exhale.

My wings come out.

Not soft. Not shy.

But timed. Sharp. Necessary.

—legacy walks in.

We move forward

with sound, power, and grace—

ready to cover, gather, and sow.

Photo by Courtney Hedger on Unsplash

To the woman who let the coat go—….thank you.

You didn’t discard it.

You released it.

….And it and its grace-filled Power, found its way to me.