When I was young, my mother would tell me stories about her sister, an agile, world-famous, circus performer. My mother didn’t hold her in much esteem. But I soaked up the stories with incredulous reverence, never able to quench my thirst for news of her.

My eccentric aunt would sporadically send me nonsensical gifts—tops that wouldn’t spin, kites that wouldn’t fly—that kind of thing. Though they didn’t work, these gifts were inconsequential and benign. So, I wasn’t sure why my mother fell into a sullen melancholy every time one of the spontaneous offerings in ornate packaging arrived. To pacify her, I would whisk the gift out of sight, so I could peel back its opaque wrapping in private and sit, awestruck, before the glorious thing.

Unable to be apathetic, I could not hide my treasure for long. I would bring out the beautiful toy and show it off, only to endure excruciating embarrassment when the gadget wouldn’t function, even with reinforced weak spots.

“I have to halt these ridiculous gifts,” my mother would mutter as I returned the newest one to the shelf. There, the previous gifts gathered dust in a bleak, desolate existence. Even though none of the toys worked, I couldn’t bear to throw any of them away.

I could not explain why, but I felt sure these were not insubstantial toys, but something more, something amazing—if only I could formulate the right way to use them.

Each time my aunt sent a new toy, I became more bashful about displaying its charms. Each time, it became less feasible to convey the avid faith I had in my aunt.

One pivotal afternoon, when yet another gift had arrived and disappointed (the lovely blue bucket’s bottom was porous, allowing all the water I’d put in it to leak out), I returned to my room feeling a melancholy of my own.

Sitting before all the gifts, it occurred to me that I could use the leaky bucket to power a contraption made from the gears of an earlier present. Once I made that connection, I saw how another few gifts might fit together. Excited, I carried all my gifts outside and worked away at them until I had a colorful engine to fit onto my old red wagon.

As my mother watched from the front doorway, I took my cart to the street and climbed aboard.

“Are you sure this will work?” my mother asked, chewing her lip.

“I’m positive,” I said and swung the bucket so that it leaked on the gears. With all the toys working in one accord, wind and water propelled me up the hill.

At the top, I looked back and saw my mother smiling for the first time in a long time. She waved.

Seconds later, my wagon started down the other side of the hill, speeding down toward the park.

It was a turbulent ride, but I felt like I was flying.

On wings my aunt had given me.