Teresa Burns Murphy
An excerpt from THE SECRET TO FLYING
When I was a little girl, I thought of my mother as a beautiful bird with clipped wings. I wasn't beautiful like she was, but I was determined to learn how to fly. She used to take me for flying lessons on a stretch of sand that ran along the Little Red River. She'd lie back with her knees pulled toward her chest and arch her ankles. I'd position my bottom on the soles of her feet and prepare myself for flight. "Close your eyes, Donita," she'd say, her voice as soothing as river water rolling downstream. "And release everything that weighs you down."
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