Robin
Image credits: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/11540542789718225/
In the gray mist that clouds the early morning sky just before the sun starts to rise, a young woman crouches in front of her glass bedroom door and notices a chubby little bird huddled on the cold concrete next to a planter box. He (for she assumes the little animal is a he) appears to be perfectly calm and cozy; but when she looks more closely, she perceives a bout of miniscule tremors causing his plump body to shake. The sullen sky suggests a forecast of rain, so maybe he is only shivering from the cold, she thinks. As she watches him, knowing something is off but not able to tell what it is exactly, she feels that he can sense her presence, her round and intimidating eyes staring straight at him through the glass door that separates them by only a few feet. She wishes she could look more deeply into his eyes, but they are so tiny, almost microscopic, and so brown they look black.
Birds have feathers, of course; but this little one looks like he is wearing a big fur coat, slightly ruffled and dirty from…a long journey? She wonders where he has come from; perhaps some unknown land that is vastly different from the boring streets of the college town he has found himself stranded in. However, as she studies his tattered and worn jacket, she realizes that his feathers are only giving the impression of a puffy mink-colored parka because his right wing is all maimed and broken.
This sudden realization brings with it a chilling wave of sadness. Immediately, as the little bird shuffles around, revealing the scruffy, futile lump of gray and white feathers that coat the right side of his body, the woman’s mind shifts into panic-mode: What to do? How to help him? Who hurt this little baby? She tries to conjure up some solution to the earth-shattering crisis before her; thinking up some way to save this poor creature who is so innocent, so naive, in his unequivocal suffering. But she can think of nothing. Even if she could, though, she is already running late for work–which starts in half an hour and takes twenty minutes to walk to, and she is still in her pajamas.
But she sits there with the battered bird until she sees him start to hop away, a bit frantically, given that he is likely also surprised by his inability to fly–a skill he never understood as a skill, since it always came naturally to him. She thinks to herself, my little bird friend knows that to be a bird means to be resilient. And in unison with the thought, the little robin discovers a rhythm in his skinny legs that allows him to hop away and mount the tall steps that connect the woman’s patio to the sidewalk adjacent to the busy street. Up those steps and to the right and left there are plenty of nooks and crannies where the bird can find shelter while he meditates on what to do next. Because, again, she thinks, if my little friend contains any knowledge within that spec of matter inside his head, it is knowledge on how to bounce back (quite literally).
She follows the robin outside to ensure that he is safe and sound, but when she too mounts the steps, she grows slightly worried, as she cannot find him anywhere. She waits for a moment, just to be sure he won’t jump out from behind a bush, beckoning to her that he desperately needs her help. When she sees no sign of him, his puffy parka, or his scraggly legs, she makes her way back inside and proceeds to get ready for work.
She is now an hour into her shift, which she has spent sitting at her desk, ruminating on the bittersweet encounter she had today. The day prior, she almost took her life–one of several almost-attempts in the last few months. Immersed waist-high in the ocean, rocks of many shapes and sizes sagging in her trench coat pockets, she found herself being held back, her bare feet locked into the wet sand caked beneath the cold and murky water. Then it had started to rain. She loved the rain, but she had hoped that when she waded into the vast sea, she would be consumed solely by the water below. She wanted the air to be fresh and crisp and clear, so she could truly relish in her last breath. And she imagined being able to open her eyes to the sky and look directly into the sun, not caring if it blinded her, for it wouldn’t matter.
But here she was, breathing in the not-so-fresh air of her office, the waters of yesterday drained completely from her mind. Her only thoughts were of her little bird friend.
This seemingly inconsequential event cuts deeper than any razor or any knife she’d ever used before. As she repaints the image of the baby robin outside her glass door, she is reminded of a favorite poem–one she has visually depicted on the skin of her right arm:
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Strangely enough, earlier in the day prior, as the young woman was walking home from class to her apartment, preparing for her trip later that evening to the beach, she crossed paths with an old friend she hadn't seen in years. They exchanged brief and insubstantial small talk, before her friend made a sudden comment about the weather:
“I really would love it if it started raining,” he said.
The young woman gave him an amused look and replied, “Really? I’ve been banking on the sun coming out all day. It’s there, hiding behind the clouds, teasing us. I hope I can will it to come out somehow.”
They shared some light laughter and then the friend replied, “Well, I’m hopeful for you.”
The comment really didn’t mean much to him, but to her, it consumed her whole being. She did not know why exactly, for the phrase was nothing special, really. They said their goodbyes and parted ways, and the four-letter word lingered in the young woman’s mind all the way home.
Now, sitting in her office, the word returns to her consciousness, entwined with the memory of her little bird friend. She senses an unanticipated feeling of warmth and comfort rush over her body like a wave. She thinks to herself, Though my right wing may also be somewhat dismembered and broken right now, I am, down to my core, immensely resilient. If a little helpless creature like my robin friend–with his grain-sized brain and shabby feathers, his twigs of legs and black holes of eyes–if he can hop away and find protection for himself, even if it doesn’t prevent his eventual dying, I too can find a way to ‘hop’ forward, to keep on keeping on.
Whether he knows it or not, my little feathered friend perched himself within my soul today and instilled within my beating heart a flutter of hope. I hear his tune; and just as I could never turn and look the other way from a small and sweet little bird huddled outside my glass door, I also cannot ignore the small and sweet little girl huddled within me, begging that I listen to that hopeful tune.
Written by Brinn Wallin
This poem was created and written by Brinn Wallin. Please do not steal or copy without permission. *All Rights Reserved*