One day I grew scales.
My father grew feathers.
In our living room,
we became what the other hated.
He said,
You’re my daughter, so I will catch you.
I said,
I will dive so deep into the ocean
you will never find me.
He bared his wings.
I ran to the water.
He was lonely.
I was sorry.
When he died,
I found a feather tucked under my scales.
I named it grief.
I wrote with it.