Ebony Wings

1

~Ali~

If someone were to ask me if I have had a happy childhood, I would proudly reply yes. My life is unpretentious, if a little predictable, but utterly roseate and I would not change it for anything. By default my memories are bountiful and cherished, captured in handcrafted albums stuffed with photographs and noteworthy clippings.

One of my favourite memories is founded in a Sunday morning routine when my father and I would visit the pond at the edge of our village in the drizzly morning air, armed with the week's old bread slices. The grass would glitter with dew in the low light, and the breeze would carry a chilled undercurrent, yet to be warmed by the day. 

The gently trampled path would almost undoubtably be soggy and squelch satisfactorily under my bubblegum-pink wellingtons as we followed the din of bickering ducks echoing from behind the hedge line.

My favourite duck of the flock was Dollie - well, she looked like a Dollie to me at the time, anyway. She was muddy brown with flecks of black strewn across her glossy feathers. As the largest female of the flock she was unmissable, especially when she flapped her wings excitedly at our arrival - or more accurately, the arrival of food. From the day I first saw Dollie as an impressionable preschooler, I wished to fly like the ducks, bobbing in the reedy water and coming and going as I pleased with a set of my own wings. The ability to fly seemed cool at the time - definitely the most popular superpower to have. Or maybe the desire for flight simply grew stronger with age; the escapism an uncommon liberty in today's cage of limited alternatives. Anyway, the point is flying was awesome then and it is still awesome now.

Our boots would track little and large footprints back up the driveway until they were discarded beside the front door. We would decorate the radiator with our dew-soaked socks as the oily scent of eggs and bacon wafted from the kitchen where mum played the morning telly. Before finding his office, Dad would find the living room first, always adding another dry log onto the open fire even if it wasn't completely necessary and I would watch patiently as it shrivelled and squeaked in the heat, burnt orange embers whistling up the chimney, lost and floating forever.

As wonderful as my life is, I am going on a frightful nineteen at the end of the year, and with a new age undoubtedly comes new insecurities. Not that my current inesecurity is an obvious self-doubt. This one has been stimulated by the countless novels I unapologetically divulge in, noting how the plot always explores theme of self-discovery and becomings. Naturally I have given these topics some thought for myself. From this careful consideration I have concluded that I cannot experience my becoming yet because I cannot become anyone if I do not know who I am to begin with.

It has been a thought on my mind for some time now and I do not possess a wide enough vocabulary to precisely describe the coiling sensation in my stomach that tells me there is more to my life than what I currently am experiencing. Not in a materialistic or monetary fashion, but a deep emotional starvation like there is a vacancy within me that must be filled. I just haven't figured out what it is yet or how to address it.

University was not necessarily a fixed milestone for my future - with Dad's small-scale printing business struggling in the modern market of e-books and online magazines, I had always wanted to help keep the family business running and planned to start an apprenticeship under his watch the minute I graduated from high school. So after I finished high school I found myself working through most of the year on an apprenticeship at the printing business, being groomed to to one day take over.

But as time wore on, it didn't take me long to figure out that maybe printing wasn't everything I always thought it was going to be and that secluding myself from a normal university experience seemed a little like shooting myself in the foot. The idea of moving away from home was a scary one, but the thought of staying at home for the next three years was even scarier.

Following this, I decided that the first step in finding out my path in life would not be found at my dad's printing warehouse. To find that, I would have to move away. So, when a glossy advertisement for a small town university in Barmouth was sent through our mailbox only days later, I could not help but feel this was the beginning of a journey much larger than myself.

I discussed my new passion to attend with my parents, flashing them the now dog-eared pamphlet and they were more than supportive of my decision. Pleased even, stating phrases of encouragement like 'change builds resilience' and how 'progress is impossible without change'.

"But it is a lot of money..." My mum added concerned over dinner that night. "We just don't have those kind of funds at the moment."

"If Ali wants it this badly, we will make it work," my dad affirmed confidently.

"I suppose I could go back and ask if the agency would take me back? I know it has been some years, but I have always kept friendly with that Karen in administration," my mother ponders over a fork of lasagne.

"Well, what about a scholarship?" My dad suggests hopefully. "The brochure did outline a fantastic academic program that comes with a considerable discount."

"Yeah, but dad," I start, already dreading the idea about getting their hopes up over this. "You have to be the best of the best to even get considered for a full scholarship, or even a partial one. The competition for those places are intense!" I am nervous just at the though of applying for any kind of scholarship, let alone an academic one. Don't get me wrong, my grades at school are good, great even, but so will everyone else's be.

"It will be intense when you go in for the running! You came away from school with top grades, Ali! The school will jump at the opportunity to put someone like you on their program." My father, ever the idealist and motivator.

"I don't know..." I twirl the last bites of food around my plate nervously.

"Well, how about we just give it a go and see? The worst they can say is no and then your mother and I will just take on more shifts and start setting aside more money each month. We can do this if it is what you really want."

"I love you guys, thank you." My heart swells with affection for them and suddenly I want that scholarship more than anything, if not for myself, then for my parents.

We follow our sudden decision with extra research over the summer months to make sure the University of Barmouth is the right place to move to. But with each word we read online or promotional video we watch, our decision just solidifies.

I put forth late online application for the full academic scholarship program with a focus on ancient history. When the university confirms they would consider my late interest in applying for the scholarship at their university, I begin studying everything I know that evening. I pull out all of my textbooks and even order some new ones online - they smell fresh off the printer when they arrive. I dig out my old handwritten notes from high school and arm myself with a newly bought pack of highlighters.

I spend the rest of the summer revising for the entrance examination in June and do so happily if it means a scholarship at the end of it. Everything moves pretty fast from there; my scholarship entrance examination is posted to my old high school where I sit the paper under the watchful gaze of an invigilator, once I return home from the exam, I make a point of routinely checking the mailbox at least twice a day for two weeks straight until I receive my letter of congratulations. I passed the full academic scholarship exam with flying colours. I was officially enrolled at the University of Barmouth just after July, ready for a mid-September start.

So that brings me to now, just two short days away from the start of the semester where I will be sleeping on a bed that is not my own and sitting in a lecture hall that is over three hours away.

It is bitter-sweet thoughts at this point - heartbreaking I will be leaving behind my only familiarity but thrilling that I will finally begin to find my becoming.

So with little left to do in these final days I find myself packing and repacking my bags, filling my suitcase and red duffle bag with everything I can possibly think of needing - a variety of clothes and shoes, toothbrushes (yes, multiple), my phone and phone chargers, a new set of pens and notebooks and almost everything in-between. The tight seams of my luggage cases indicate that not only have I packed enough resources for myself, but it looks like I have enough necessities to provide for the entire grade and then some.

This should be interesting.