The Magical Thinking of Birds
My brother, who always gauged the weather by the bulge and sag in his ceiling, said she began losing her hair and that I should come home. I imagined her hair now as something fine, short, almost like vellus. There was something at once absurd and irresistible about returning to the cycle of returning. At her bedside, I smiled and pronounced my name the way she did in the old country, only without the lilt, the soft flight of ending vowel. In the old country, she used to tell me at night, there were rare birds that could work magic, could save a sickly boy such as the one I broke out from. If you utter a secret name, one would come to your window. For that reason, as a child, I never crushed worms in wet soil. She opened her eyes a thread. If only pain originated in the epidermis, it would be so easy to get rid of. Like dandruff. I rubbed her cheek, the skin, dry, almost rubbery. Her eyes grew wide, moist, catching the low light, holding onto it as if an imprisoned lover. "So you come home." I smiled. Was she playing a game? Like the kind we played when I was a kid, hiding behind evergreens, pretending theywere my mysterious and loyal stepfathers. When she discovered me, as she always did, she lifted me with her strong hands, her buttery smiles that promised me the world. But now. Perhaps she sensed my presence all along, even from the other side of the world. Her voice was wispy, a layer of downy. Yes, I said, in my strongest armadillo monotone. “Give me a kiss,” she said, “have I not earned it?” I obeyed, forever that stilted child, frozen in conundrums. She began to speak of her childhood, as if I was her priest who would grant absolution. The white pantomime of hills. The stranger's laugh floating over a fjord. Her first sled that flew into the air and curved along the arc of the world. Slowly, she turned towards the bay window. The rain was streaking it. There was a shadow of some kind. A Rorshach blot of wings. I thought of birds that I read about, ones fleeing extinction: the Gurney's Pitta, the Bachman Warbler, the Ivory Billed Woodpecker. No more names, I thought. It was really the afternoon that died.
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Author's Note
Published in Leaf Garden, Aug. 2010 under the pen name, Kyle Hemmings
Other stories by Kyle Hemmings
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I like this, David. Good form and phrasings... "If only pain originated in the epidermis, it would be so easy to get rid of. Like dandruff. I rubbed her cheek, the skin, dry, almost rubbery. Her eyes grew wide, moist, catching the low light, holding onto it as if an imprisoned lover. "So you come home." I smiled." Nice work.
Excellent writing, David. Lots of good phrasings, as Sam said, and I'll say some of these are unexpected, if that makes sense.
The muted pain in this story is achingly beautiful, as is the writing. The last line will stay with me a long time.
Magical. Love the imagery in the last few lines: "A Rorshach blot of wings...."
gorgeous, lyric writing. The framing so poignant of the once sickly boy now grown at the dying mother's bedside against the images from their early years, the connection, her telling tales of magic birds at night, the games of hide/seek, evergreens as stepfathers. This line got me:
I never crushed worms in wet soil.
thanks, everyone. Your comments are very much appreciated.
Beyond the merits of language, telling images and the perfect arc of the structure, all very appealing, I like the odd enigmatic phrases. " The white pantomime of hills.""...evergreens pretending [to be]...mysterious and loyal stepfathers," that open a kind of reverie within the story.
Thanks for the read and comments, David, very appreciated.
This is beautiful. Here is a narrator we can trust. I loved reading this and felt richer for it. Beyond the magnificent, intricate storytelling, the hidden knowledge you give to your reader, it is the phrasing, the poetry of this piece which makes me wish it were longer *
Thank you, Bobbi. Very much appreciated.
Gorgeous (I didn't know you were Kyle Hemmings). *
Thank you, Kari. Yes, I'm Kyle.
Wonderful piece, carrying its own consolation of gentelenss within its sadness. *
Thank you, Beate!
beautiful poignant, deeply touching story.
thank you, Tantra!
I really like how this is weighted with hidden history, with geography, with a story between them that is deep and never forgotten. So many hints in this piece - the games from childhood, the meaning of names, the lilting way of speech. It's beautifully told in poetic phrasings, and such a good strong story.
*
Thank you again for reading these pieces, Michelle!
Beautiful story of course sad.
Sharp as a knife edge and soft as my grandmother's whisper. Best of both worlds in this. Excellent.