Every Saturday as the horizon starts painting with streaks of light pink and purple, a bird flies by. It’s the same bird, every time. The same movement of the wings, same slow aching call to a nearby friend.
The first day I noticed it, my fingers were shaking and doubt was whispering into my ear. Tears traveled down my face but I looked up at the sky hoping for a sign. Everything was fading away and night was approaching, violet and pink coloured the sky as if they were flowers at the sun’s funeral. I couldn’t remember what I was crying about, I only saw the bird. The bird was so astonishingly beautiful, the kind of beautiful that you would hold in your heart forever. I did.
The next week I saw the bird again. I was huddled over text books and my computer, cramming words and definitions in hopes of a number. A score that would show me how smart I was. I looked outside, out of breath. The bird flew again. It’s call echoing through my veins, filling them up with gold. I took a deep breath, and closed the computer. It flew around and around, circling the sky for something. Something more than what it had.
The bird became regular after that, it’s call fading slowly into the abyss that we call the sky. When I came home in late summer, I was quiet. Jet lagged and delirious I crashed into my bed. When I woke up, the sun had started to set, hoping for a standing ovation at the end of a long summer day. A slight breeze making the curtains flutter and the only sounds were of the house settling in. That day the bird didn’t come. Scents of fresh baked cornbread, and the jingle of earrings came to mind. It turned to night and the only light was from the moon and half formed stars. I was waiting for that bird to come, I waited and waited until I finally fell asleep.
I woke up to the sound of rain. Rain was pouring down, the skies were city grey and nothing lived. A slow echoing call came from the sky. The call seemed to melt into gold, making the clouds drift apart and sunshine to seep through. The bird flew in a circular motion, the edge of it’s wings carving patterns into the setting sun. It like it was apologising and with one last call it flew up, up into the sun.
Hana E, Grade 9, Regular Contributor