Friday Morning

Adelaide locked her elbows and stubbornly pushed down on the bar of a broom, hammering out the feathered wing from the cement. The bird had been dead for months, its two broken wings were the only remains, and they were visible from her window every morning. So at 530 am, when the first few bars of light broke into the backyard, Adelaide attacked in her yoga pants and black and pink chucks. The wings had to go.