My bird, who sits alone in her cage at night, sees nothing but changes in light. On an island of bricks covered by newspaper, she does not stray far. Her territory is but a memory engraved in her head, a memory kept intact by her talons and beak. She is blind, but can still see the shadows and a bit of light.
A digital album is covered by dust, not a photo has been added for years. Scroll through it, and you will see two birds–one gray and one yellow. Photos of the two birds cuddling, singing, perching, alongside a young boy. Reaching the bottom of the album, the last few photos contain only the yellow bird.
Where did the gray one go? The yellow bird does not know. One day there was singing, the next there was crying. Then, she was alone. She does not know.
My bird, who no longer flies because she cannot see, sits by herself now. My bird, born with a bald head, was bullied by others before we got her. A young gray bird, new to the world and too innocent to judge her, was brought to her. They lived happily together—but only for a fleeting moment. He perished as quickly as he arrived, and only for a sliver of her life did she have another bird that loved her. The humans in the house are too busy, and now the young boy has grown up and can only spare a few minutes for her.
Yet she still stands on the top of her cage, waiting for someone to pick her up and scratch her head. My bird, who sits alone at night, I only wish you could see the world around you. I want you to understand why I no longer have time. I want you to see how much I’ve grown since you last saw any color. First your vision, then the gray bird—and then me. You’ve always been a loner. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Write Our World 