How To Hold a Heart
Suddenly, there is a whole and tiny life in the palm of my hand. It flutters and skips, breathing quickly. A life so different, so far from my own, yet here, immediate, physical and alive. There is a heartbeat, however faint and my own picks up.
Archived from Aug 10, 2023:
There’s a red cardinal on the road. At first, I don’t see the striking red, it’s too late at night for that, but the shape catches my eye. It’s late enough that there aren’t many cars on the road, so I crouch a foot or so away and wait to see if it’s breathing. The bird’s left eye seems swollen shut, and I hold my knees close to myself, waiting to see if it flies away. A car passes on the other side of the road and I pull out my book. Slowly, I walk towards it and try to gently coax it towards the sidewalk, pushing my book against it tenderly. It does not like this, but I insist. Eventually, I convince it to the edge of the road, but it flaps it’s way into the middle of a driveway. I crouch down again and rest my head on my knees. I need a minute.
It’s first thing in the morning and I’m walking up to work. A dog pulls on its leash suddenly, and before really realising what’s happening, I hop forward and spill coffee on my hand.
“It’s just a bird,” I call over to the owners as they tug their dog back from whatever was so interesting. Laying on the concrete in front of the neighbouring glass door and breathing fast is a small, yellow warbler. I put my bag down gently next to it and unlock the door into the brewery. The tables are all pushed aside and the taproom is full of clean kegs. It’s been months since we poured beer to serve inside, or outside for that matter. I stride over to the counter, turn on the lights and grab a cardboard flat. I head back outside and put the box upside down over the small bird. Quickly as I can, I bring in my bag and set up the bottle shop before heading back outside. Slowly, I lift the box away from the bird and see its breathing has slowed. I bring the box to the patio and place it on a bench. I find a jar I brought my lunch in and rinse out the lid, fill it with water and place it in the box. I go back, and pick up the bird from the concrete.
My heart skips a beat. Suddenly, there is a whole and tiny life in the palm of my hand. It flutters and skips, breathing quickly. A life so different, so far from my own, yet here, immediate, physical and alive. There is a heartbeat, however faint and my own picks up. I sit down, as gently as I can while cradling the tiny bird in my hand. I stare. I don’t know for how long. Eventually, I place the bird gently in the box, next to the water and walk inside to wash my hands. I put some small pieces of raspberry in the box and every time I’m speaking to someone inside, my eyes wander to the front windows, trying to catch a glimpse of the small bird. I spend the whole day walking in and out, sitting with it in between customers.
Finally, in the afternoon, I come out to see the small bird is no longer breathing. I sit; I don’t know for how long. I am interrupted by another customer and my day goes on. When close finally comes and I lock the door, I have the small bird in a paper bag. Counter to my usual habits, I walk home without any music. I do not know if the walk is longer or shorter than usual, but the sun was well past set by the time I walk through the tree shrouded path to the building I live in at the time. Just barely in the bleeding light of one of the lamps on the path, I gently dig a hole beneath a goldenrod plant. I pick a few flowers and lay the small yellow bird among them before slowly, ever so carefully filling the modest hole with dirt. I sit down on the side of the path and am wracked with shaking, choking sobs. I am crying for the world, so drastically changed so quickly, for all the times I hadn’t let myself cry, for the tiny heart I had held in my hand. I do not know how long I cried for.
The red cardinal is still in the road. I feel a lump in my throat but I push it down. He’s been staring at my long enough that when I put my book down next to his feet, he reluctantly hops on. I gently put him at the base of a bush and stand up straight. I do not know how long it’s been. I turn and walk home down the hill, not looking back. I know I can’t handle what will hit me if I do.
As ever, thank you for being here, friends. I apologise for something a bit more experimental this week, I hope you enjoy it, or at least find it tolerable. I don’t know if I plan on making these more personal letters more common or not. There is actually a lot going on in Ontario politics right now. Ford was just outed for stripping hundreds of acres out of the greenbelt to specifically benefit a handful of developers, so I may get back to writing more about current events next week. For this week, this is what I could muster.
