When Ephram was five, he asked his mother a question.

Her asked her why fish couldn't fly.

She laughed, pushing a wisp of bangs from her eyes, and crouched in front of him. She asked him why he wanted to know.

He told her he though they were pretty. As pretty as birds, and birds could fly. He said it wasn't fair that fish couldn't fly too.

She ran a tender hand down his arm, pulled him close, and whispered that fish could fly.

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When Ephram was fifteen he learned that his mother was right.

Sitting on the shores of a deep, blue lake, watching the fish swim by, and the birds fly overhead. Watching Colin wrap his arms around Amy and tug her close. Watching them laugh and exchange kisses.

Watching Colin as he glanced over his shoulder at Ephram, winking at him suggestively before Amy asked him a question, and he turned back around to answer.

Ephram looked away.

He thought about what his mother had said as he watched a bird dip into the water, and capture a fish. It clenched the squirming mass between it's beak, and flew over Ephram's head.

He watched the bird and fish, as they both flew high up into the clouds.

And he watched, when moments later, the fish fell to the shore, torn and bloodied.

Broken.

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When Ephram was five, he asked his mother why fish couldn't fly.

She told him that they could.

She never told him how much it would hurt.