Cotton Streets by Lauryn Powell

She wrote me a note, telling me that she wanted to be a bird.
How she wanted to jump out of trees and not get hurt. She said that she scraped her knees, and that it hurt like heck. Her mommy had to put this burn-y stuff on her cuts, and she cried.
I wrote a note back saying that I wished that the ground was like cotton, so that if she fell out of a tree, her knees wouldn’t get hurt.
Later, she wrote me a card.
She said she wanted to be a bird, because birds can fly off buildings and not get hurt. She said she saw someone land on concrete. The ambulances came, and wheeled them away to a house of the dead. Were they a bird in their final, fleeting moments?
I wrote a card back saying that I wish that the ground was like cotton, so that when birds with clipped wings jumped off buildings, they wouldn’t get hurt when their feet touched the ground. They could go back to walking around, staring upon the world with wonder.
Then, I finally received a letter.
She said she was going to see what it was like to fly. She had been thinking about the cuts on her knees from so long ago, and had also been thinking about the cuts on her thighs and wrists. So she told me she was going to climb to the top of a twenty story building, and see if the jump would be enough time for her wings to sprout. She said that she wanted to be a bird, because birds can fly off buildings and not get hurt. She said that she loved me, and she would see me again, when we would both be flying.
So now, I’m writing my letter back to her.
I wish the streets were cotton; cotton is soft, comforting, warm, and could have saved your bones from breaking. The cotton streets would have caught you, taught you that you weren’t supposed to fly yet.
For your wings would have sprouted when the time was right, when you were supposed to have had them. You wanted to be a bird, and every time I look at a tree, I think of you.
I think of how I wish I could climb to the tops of the twisted branches and see the world as you do now.
I think of how birds migrate south for the winter, and how you flew away from me for all four seasons.
I think about how you so desperately wished to fly, to see how far you could leave the nest and settle down in a new tree; how you wanted to fly away from these wretched roots and thrive elsewhere.
I think of how we talked and talked and talked, and how you left me, and how much I miss you, and how my salt blurs the ink, and how much I want to fly with you, but how I know that it’s not time for my wings to sprout yet.
I think of how if the roads were made of cotton, I wouldn’t have to climb to the tops of trees to see from your point of view.
I think of how the cotton streets could have saved you.