Tired Bird
By my bed, there is a figurine of a young girl with her arms outstretched and birds have landed on her. Though she doesn’t stand like a scarecrow, instead she bends into the wind and allows it to lift her up.
“I want you to feel this free one day,” he said to me as we sat on my new bed in my new room inside a new home.
The figurine used to anger me. I would lay each night, tossing and turning as it stared at me mockingly. She was free, and I was trapped inside the memories. Waking up from their spilling into my dreams. She was free, and I was not, and it infuriated me.
There’s a reason she’s missing a bird on her right arm. One night I had enough of her looming over me as I suffered as she knew nothing but joy, so I picked her up and threw her.
I threw her away from my sight.
I threw her away from myself.
I threw her away from my misery.
That figurine didn’t hold onto all that I did. She didn’t know how heavy it all is to carry. There is nowhere for me to unload all of this. But it is too heavy to fly with.
So, do I just open my arms and give the other tired birds somewhere to land?
