Stretch Your Wings

My name is Thomas Fletcher. You might remember me as the tall, lanky boy who never seemed to fit in with anyone—not even his relatives what with his blond hair and big blue eyes surrounded by dark haired and dark eyed ones. Or you might remember me as the boy who always dreamed of being more, but just never had the resources.  

However you might have known me, I want to share a simple message with you: Stretch your wings and fly.

It all started in July on a Wednesday, at 1 pm exactly. My Ma was away, working at the bar. I was at home alone, just a seventeen-year old boy. An education was too expensive and my lessons with grandma didn’t start until 2, so I sat on our front porch in the familiar rocker—each movement causing the chair to squeal in protest—looking around at the street. 

Our part of town was rundown and old, the wooden houses all leaning to one side from the sharp winds that came in winter. Weeds and saplings made the walks and streets their home—my little jungle from when I was younger. Little to no people came down here, this corner being the houses of people like me and my Ma: poor. 

I was staring at nothing, a piece of straw in my mouth, when a strange fellow came walking up to my house. His hair was white, looking grey on his pale skin. His clothes were patches of colour and patters, looking awful together. What I remember most were his eyes—one brown and one blue; his boots—cowhide and looking good as new even though they were a little worn; and the instrument strapped to his back. It was long, one end skinny for a while then getting fatter and round. It had six strings, and had a hole right in the middle.

The man smiled at me, showing one gold tooth among his white ones. “Hello, my boy! What’s your name?”

Standing up, I said, “What’re ya doing here, naw? We ain’t got no money for you.”

“I don’t want no money, son.” The strange man replied. “I jus’ want to play a song for you.”

“What kind’a trick is this? Why do’ya want to sing to a stranger?”

“I ain’t no stranger: I knew you from when you were a babe. I want to share a song with you.” Sitting down on the step near me, the man continued, “It’s a special song: one I think you’ll like…”

With that, the man lifted the instrument and laid it on his lap. I couldn’t help asking what it was.

“This old thang? It’s a guitar!” Then, the man began to strum the strings, one by one. I had to cock my head a little, one of my ears a little damaged from an accident I had had as a kid. The music was the most magical sound I had ever heard in my young life! It seemed to calm me from troubles I didn’t even know I was feeling. And when he sang! I immediately fell in love with the instrument and couldn’t help humming along. When the song was over, I felt like a part of me had died and turned to dust. I hungrily looked at the guitar, then at the man. 

The man grinned his strange smile at me. “Ya like that?”

“Very, very much, sir!”

“Then it’s yours.”

I hesitated, my hands a breath away from the treasure that the man outstretched to me. “I don’t know how to play, sir. I’m poor and only get lessin’s from my Gran’ma.”

“Well, then let me teach you a few notes.”

My attention by then was now fully engulfed in the guitar and the man, I learned how to play my first four notes. That was when I knew that this was my destiny: to play this guitar like the man.

After I had begun to play a couple notes, the man stood up to leave. “You’ll do well, sonny boy. You’ll do well…”

As the man turned to go, I shouted after him, “Wait, sir! What’s your name?”

The man stopped at the rickety old wire gate, turned to look at me, smiled a small, sad smile and said, “My name? It’s Jack” then he was gone.

I looked at my new, greatest treasure then strung it behind my back with the strap. I should have been at Gran’ma’s five minutes ago! Hurriedly, I scrambled to my feet and ran all the way through the neighbourhood to almost the other side of town, where my Gran’ma lived. She lived in the nicer parts of town, in a great big mansion— just her and little Pokey, the dog. Running up the clean, white marble steps I remember feeling a bit ashamed for having kept Gran’ma waiting so long, just for a simple guitar. But, when I opened the door and saw her sitting at the window of the living room smiling, I just felt happy to be there.

Books lined the shelves of every wall of the living room, except for where there were famous paintings hanging. The floor was covered with a soft, red rug and brown sofas and chairs were scattered across the room, the occasional table topped with books, ornaments or dishes. The only window was the one Gran’ma sat at, the stained glass shining different colours and depicting a swan, taking off from a lake.

Gran’ma smiled her soft, sweet smile. Her eyes were dark, darker than her skin. Her hair was white and pulled in a bun. “What is it, child?” She asked in her sweet voice. 

I showed her my guitar. “A strange man gave it to me. He taught me this song…” I then played for Gran’ma the song I had heard the old man play.

Tears in her eyes, Gran’ma hugged me. Confused, I looked up at her. “Wha’s the matter, Gran’ma? Why’re crying?”

Holding her hands to her forehead, she replied, “The prodigal son has returned!” She then looked down at me and stroked my cheek. Pointing to my guitar, she said, “When you were just a babe, your father—my son—left. He took his guitar—this guitar—and left in the middle of the night. We never got word back from him, until today!

“That song you played was the song he sang to your mother when they first met. It’s his way of saying that he is sorry for abandoning us!”

“You mean to tell me that that old man was my father?” Looking down at the guitar, it took a whole new meaning to me. My father new that I was now a man, and he had planned from the beginning what I would do with my life. He knew that I was his son, through and through. I had always felt empty inside, since I was a small child. I felt like something was missing from my life. And now, I knew what it was: the gift of music.

I looked up at Gran’ma and grinned. I handed her the guitar and said, “Teach me, Gran’ma. Teach me like you taught my dad.”

Beaming and tears spilling down again, she replied, “You’ll be just like your father, I guarantee it.”

Nodding, I sat closer to my beautiful Gran’ma and watched intently as she showed me more chords. 

That day was when I wrote my first song. 

When I came home, Ma was in the old kitchen making supper. The kitchen was the living room and dining room, too. A small closet made up my room and my Ma slept on the couch. 

“Hello, baby. How is Gran’ma?” Ma kissed me on the cheek. I had left the guitar back at Gran’ma’s, both of us agreeing it would be the best. 

“Gran’s all right.” I replied, kissing Ma back. “What’s for sup?”

“The usual carrot stew. Mrs. Weatherthrope was kind enough to give me a small part of a roast tonight.”

I washed up and helped set the table. “Anything interesting at the bar?”

“Just another brawl, but Jeremiah took care of it. You?”

Shrugging, I replied, “Noth’n. Just lessons with Gran’ma.” Even now, I’m not sure why I didn’t tell my Ma about the guitar. But, something held me back and I wasn’t ashamed for not telling her. 

Setting down the stew, Ma looked me in the eye. “You all righ’ son? Somethin’ seems to be troubling you.”

“Noth’n, Ma. I’m fine, just thinking.”

“My son, thinking? What’s that woman teachin’ you?”

Laughing, I sat down and dished myself some stew. Even though I had had it many times before, Ma made sure it never got old. “I’m a man, Ma. It’s normal for me to be thinking now.”

Ma let it drop after that, much to my gratitude. After eating supper, I left for my room. I had gotten another song idea and I wanted to jot it down to show Gran’ma. She had seemed surprised at how easily music came to me. She said that, “It’s your Pa’s Touch that he left on you”.

Weeks went by and my musical talent began to become more and more apparent. With everyday, I was ready for a new note. With every week, I was ready for a new strum pattern. With every month, I brought tears to my Gran’ma’s eyes with each song I wrote. Two months passed with my secret never reaching Ma’s ears. Finally, near September, I was ready to perform my music to the public.

     Ma was away, visiting my aunt who just had a baby. It was the perfect time for me to show off my talents to the world.

     Gran’ma took me in her carriage and drove me to a building almost as tall as her mansion. In big bold letters there was a sign that read ‘Selebrity Inn’. 

     Halting the horses, Gran’ma looked at me. “It’s time, son.”

     “Thank you, Gran, for everything.”

     Wrapping me into a hug, Gran’ma replied, “Open your wings, Thomas. And fly!”

     Nodding my gratitude, I opened the carriage door and, hesitating briefly, I entered the giant building of an inn. The walls were white, almost blinding from the many pretty chandlers hanging from the ceiling. The floors were covered with thick, expensive rugs with multiple different patterns on them, still white. There were sofas spread out on the large main floor, a desk on the far wall with shelves behind it. I walked up to the desk and, finding a bell resting on the right, rang it. 

     I waited a minute. When no one came, I rang again.

     “Coming! Coming!”

     A man in a starched white shirt and a black, one size too big tux ran out from a two-way door, almost running into an elderly man. The strange man ignored the older one’s curses and flew to my side. He stood behind the desk and looked down on me, frowning. Apparently, he wasn’t impressed that he had to stop whatever-it-was he had been doing for me. “Who are you?” He asked in a thick French accent. 

     “I’m here to play some music, sir.” I replied, holding up my guitar. 

     “Run along, young man. We already have the entertainment booked.”

     “But, my Gran’ma said I would be playing here!”

     “Bah! You? You look only to be fifteen.”

     Standing straighter, I stiffly replied, “I, good sir, am eighteen since two weeks ago.”

     Frowning, worried that he was mistaken, the man looked at me more closely. “What is your name?”

     “Thomas, sir. Thomas Fletcher.”

     The strange French man paled as a woman’s voice called, “Rodger, are you keeping our entertainment waiting? Mama already told you that you couldn’t do your strange ventriloquist act!”

     A woman—roughly seventeen— came into view and, I admit, I stared. She was short and had dark hair and brilliant green eyes. Her pale face was tanned and freckled, showing she enjoyed the sun. If I recall correctly, she was wearing a light violet skirt, white shirt and simple black flats. 

     Blushing, the French man said, “My apologies, Miss Freeman. I didn’t know that this beggar was the entertainment your mother had chosen.”

     The woman, Miss Freeman, laughed. It wasn’t dainty, like you’d expect from someone so pretty and nicely dressed. It was loud and wild. “Mama didn’t book Mr. Fletcher, Rodger. I did. We’re going to do an act together.”

     “What?” I exclaimed, staring at Miss Fletcher. “I wasn’t told of this!”

     Miss Freeman frowned. “It’s not a problem, is it?”

     “I ain’t sure if you know any of my songs, Miss. I wrote ‘em myself, you see…”

     “What a funny word, ‘ain’t’!” Miss Freeman laughed, causing my pride to feel a bit hurt. “I’ll be fine, Mr. Fletcher. You just worry about your performance… which sounds like will be starting soon. Come on!”

I cocked my head, now able to hear the cheers of a crowd somewhere nearby. Hurriedly, I followed after Miss Freeman. As we neared a set of oak doors however, she looked both ways cautiously. I closed my eyes as, to my horror, Miss Freeman pulled down her skirt.

To my confusion, she laughed. “It’s all right, Mr. Fletcher! My Ma didn’t want me to wear trousers on stage, but I can’t stand this dress!”

Opening my eyes, I sighed in relief. Miss Freeman’s skirt was now tossed to the side in the far corner and she was now wearing a pair of slimming pants, a nice shade of brown. Nodding in satisfaction and comfort, Miss Freeman beckoned me at her side. She leaned in close to me, apparently not affected at how close she was, and whispered, “Past those doors, Mr. Fletcher, is your future.”

“What if they don’ like my music, hey?” I couldn’t help but whisper back, feeling my stomach give a twist. I can still remember the fear I felt at that moment, the wonder at what lay beyond those doors, and the fluttering I felt at being so close to a girl for the first time. “What if my future is something I don’t want?”

Looking me in the eye, Miss Freeman replied, “Who cares if they don’t like your music? Most of the people in there are a bunch of snobs anyway! What matters is what you think of your music—I personally think it will be splendid! And the only person who decides your future is you. Now, are you ready, Mr. Fletcher?”

Taking a deep breath, I nodded. “Thank you, Miss Freeman, for this chance.”

“Please, call me Susan. But never Susy!”

Not able to help a small laugh escape, I nodded. That girl attracted me: she was different, in a good way. I couldn’t help vowing to myself that she would become my wife.

As Susan and I opened the doors, I couldn’t help but gasp. The room was so big compared to my Gran’ma’s living room. It held dozens of small, round tables with three chairs at each one. There were hundreds—to my young eyes at least. There were probably only maybe fifty— of chandeliers hanging from the tall ceiling and at the front was a big, fancy stage. 

“Am I going to be singing on that? It’s too nice for someone like me!”

“We’re going to be singing on that, Mr. Fletcher. And you're too nice for it!”

It was time for us to get on the stage. There was a small stool for me to sit on and a microphone for my guitar, me and Susan. Handing Susan a copy of one of my songs, I began to play. Then I began to sing. The world disappeared around me as I began to sing. Once I hit the second chorus, Susan joined in with a perfect, angelic harmony. I began to love music more, just by singing with her. Here’s the song we sang:

Soar! Soar high above.

Show the world who you can be.

Soar! Soar to your dreams.

Show them all what they can’t see. 

Little bird by the rose,

You can be so much more.

See the sky high above?

Stretch your wings and fly!

Soar! Soar…

Little boy in the clouds,

You can do so much more.

See the mother all alone?

Stretch your wings and soar!

Soar! Soar…

Soar! Soar…

Still silence. That was all I heard after finishing the song. Then, after a moment, people began to stand up and cheer. I smiled in relief, feeling my heart burst with joy. Susan looked at me and grinned.

That was the beginning of my music career. I would sing at the Selebrity Inn three times a week and would get paid five-hundred dollars a night. When I told my Ma, she was mad at first. But, I asked her to hear me play.

When Ma came to hear me and Susan sing one fine November day, she cried with joy. After our performance, she walked up to me and gave me a big hug. Ma has loved our music ever since.

Years later, after marrying Susan and becoming famous, I was sitting on the front porch of my nice, clean home. I couldn’t help but think back to my father, who had started it all. I wanted to thank him for everything he had done, but no one had heard from him after that July day. 

I searched for him and made inquiries. Eventually, I found a woman who told me that she had seen him jump off a bridge, the same day he had given me his guitar. He had held his hands up in the air and shouted, “I have finally redeemed myself. Take me in Your loving arms!”, then he was gone.

But, I will never forget what he did for me. The message I give to you all is to stretch your wings and fly, no matter how big the dream is. 

The end