My father puts his hands out and starts to flap them like they’re wings. I think that at least I know for sure that my insanity will be genetic.
“Just spread your wings and fly if you feel that you can,” he says to me still flapping his arms slowly.
“I know, I think I’m going to do it if not for myself to just prove her wrong,” gesturing that he can stop flapping his “wings”.
His face lights up, “It’s not until you’ve flapped your wings, you’ve gone airborne, that you can really see things. Right now, you’re on the ground and all you can see is the shit.”