Weirdly Relieved And Not So Relieved
Thunder rumbles and lightning cracks like whips across the skies as clouds unleash a deluge of rain pounding rooftops, bare trees, and parched thirsty lawns. After the onslaught, a gentle calm settles over the neighbourhoods.
Sunrise beckons for life to wake up.
I roll over onto my side, my drool smeared cheeks mashed into my pillow, and snuggle deeper beneath my blanket. I smile to myself as the soft melodic chirps of a red cardinal caresses my ear drums. I keep my eyes closed and feel my heart swell with harmonious joy. There I lay safe in the red cardinal’s lullaby; a dream edges closer to my imagination. I’m about to surrender to my dream when it suddenly vanishes.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
I roll onto my back. My joy-filled heart drains and I listen with intent. What is that sound? I realize the sound is emanating from downstairs. Is someone breaking in? Do I call 911?
I am nervous but oddly not panicked enough especially since I’m in my pajamas; trying to pull on track pants and scramble out the bedroom window at the same time somehow is a stretch. Knowing me I’ll get halfway out and whoever the intruder is will drag my screaming ass back in from the window ledge.
Thud.
I sit up in bed. I wait. I trace my surgery scar on the right inside wrist without thinking. I push my long, curly, lavender-colored hair out of my eyes, remove the blanket, put on my robe, and knot it around my menopause belly. I tip-toe out and stand at the top of the stairs. Silence.
Thud.
I cringe holding my breath as the squeak on the bottom wood stair shouts to the intruder I’m home. I hesitate, lean and look around the wall before stepping off onto the main floor. I see a bird charging towards the glass patio sliding door.
Thud.
I’m weirdly relieved and not so relieved. What is this crazy bird’s death wish?
The bird perches on the edge of the patio table, its’ head bobbing left to right. It sees me approaching and flies away, props onto the top of the wooden fence, observes me then bolts up between thick green leaves of a tall tree.
Disappointed that my harrowing break-in story is simply a disoriented bird, I trapse back up to my bedroom. Of course, I’m wide-awake descrambling my brain to decide whether to jump back under the blanket or give in to a morning walk – the same blistering two kilometers to remind myself I’m here. I’m a living organism eating and belching, breathing and coughing, walking and farting; hoping beyond hope life will spark a new idea. A new idea for what?
What do I want to find within this kaleidoscope canvas I’m connected to?
Thud.
Sleep is out.
My bed is made, teeth brushed, sunscreen, I hurriedly pull on my T-shirt and a final check for any holes in my track pants. I grab my baseball hat, double back for my mobile, only to realize I’m walking sockless on the parquet floor.
Thud.
I hurry downstairs to see the crazy bird scratch at the glass with its clawed feet. I pull on my socks and approach the glass door. Its’ telltale footprints are scattered helter-skelter all over. Barf-like bird poop cakes on top of the patio glass table.
What possessed this bird? I have to go out there and clean up its’ mess. God help me if it is a winged version of Cujo and attacks me!
I look out and see the crazy bird sitting atop the backyard wood fence.
I remember my aunt said to me when a bird hits your window and dies it is a bad omen. But this crazy bird is on steroids with its propped-up orange breast feathers. It is a ‘Gunfight at the O.K. Corral’ standoff…but more like ‘Divebomb at the O.K. Corral’. I can risk losing both eyes let alone my dignity from getting crapped on.
Something prods me to pull out my mobile phone out of one of my track pants pockets. My fingers move fast across the keys. I quickly scan and find the YouTube video ‘why birds hit windows.’
The ‘bird watcher’ video guy reassures me the bird is not intentionally hurting itself. It’s defending its’ territory. Hold on, crazy bird interrupts my dream and it’s defending its’ territory! What about my territorial right to sleep in?
I dig some more and find out that Native Americans see these birds (a robin apparently) as symbols of hope, and fresh starts because it is springtime and are linked to new development and rebirth.
I stare down the crazy bird. It retreats to the tall tree.
To be honest, I love the freedom of birds to launch themselves into the air, grab the wind and soar high. I watch how they glide without a care in the world. Am I an ant to them up there in oxygen thin air? Or are they plotting their next home invasion?
I close the video and consider the instructions to cover the glass window, but I have to go outside. Crazy bird has the upper hand now.
Fortunately, I discover Scotch tape when I dig through the kitchen junk drawer and gather some newspaper. I hurry to the closet, grab my outdoor flip flops, softly push the glass sliding door open. The crisp morning spring breeze hits me. I place my flip flops outside and slide my socked feet into them. I wait. The coast is clear.
Like the roadrunner, I tape newspaper down onto the glass. I take a quick look over my shoulder. A butterfly flies across the backyard.
I retreat inside, slide the glass door closed and lock it. I take a peek from a corner that is uncovered. Fists pump. Hair disaster averted.
I drop the tape into the kitchen junk drawer and run upstairs to grab my house keys.
Thud.
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