The sound of birdsong woke her in the cool half light of morning. She knew if she stretched her arm out beyond the limits of the blankets she would feel the chill and the little rush of possibilities that a new morning might bring.
For a few delicious minutes she was young again, in the country, and beyond her window the whole world waited for her. Then the dull ache in her joints came back to remind her and she recalled that the birdsong now came not from the warm living bodies of birds but from the clock radio on her bedside table.
‘Oh,’ she said, out loud. Then, hearing how the word hung so alone in the air, she said again, ‘oh.’
Minutes passed, the spell broken she rolled over and tuned away from the station of birdsong; squared her shoulders at the grown up responsibility to listen, each and every day, to the world’s misfortunes.
She studied the wallpapers pattern as she listened and weighed up all the different options she had considered for its replacement. She had seen a pleasant floral in town the other day and her friend, Elisa, had suggested a light stripe like a seaside chalet so that, with a few prints and some shells lined up upon the mantelpiece, she might always have summer in her house. Elise even claimed to know where she might get a stuffed seagull, a real one, to affix to the ceiling.
‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘too macabre.’ The floral would be better.
She stayed in bed until the news had exhausted all calamities and the weather man had confidently predicted many smaller inconveniences. Finally she pushed herself up over the edge of the bed; her feet patting about for the soft edges of her slippers whilst she felt on the table for her glasses.
***
The cars passing in the street and the kettle boiling on its stand set her teacups rattling on the shelf. So frail in their rattling that she feared they would spring and shake to slivers. Hurrying to catch her favourite with its pattern of Chinese songbirds; she tried to hum as she filled the cup with tea but the tune seemed to perish on her lips.
Seated at the little table with her tea she found her gaze drawn to her hand, pale, thin fingers clawed around the handle of her teacup. She saw and she could not help but be reminded of the bird’s skulls her brother kept lined up on his bedroom shelf.
“Tha’s a sparrow, tha’s a little kind of lapwing and tha’ big one, tha’s a crow.” He admired them for their lightness, for the way the sunlight filtered through them when you held them up. He had told her it was the lightness that allowed them to soar up into the sky and be utterly free.
She recalled too how his adored collection used to make her school friends shudder and he, in turn, thrilled with a boys delight at their horror. “T’is what we all come to in the end,” he said and laughed.
He had been right in the end. For was she not now dry and fragile as bird bones? She might be perfectly pleased with the transformation too if only she truly could lift up and fly away.
For a few delicious minutes she was young again, in the country, and beyond her window the whole world waited for her. Then the dull ache in her joints came back to remind her and she recalled that the birdsong now came not from the warm living bodies of birds but from the clock radio on her bedside table.
‘Oh,’ she said, out loud. Then, hearing how the word hung so alone in the air, she said again, ‘oh.’
Minutes passed, the spell broken she rolled over and tuned away from the station of birdsong; squared her shoulders at the grown up responsibility to listen, each and every day, to the world’s misfortunes.
She studied the wallpapers pattern as she listened and weighed up all the different options she had considered for its replacement. She had seen a pleasant floral in town the other day and her friend, Elisa, had suggested a light stripe like a seaside chalet so that, with a few prints and some shells lined up upon the mantelpiece, she might always have summer in her house. Elise even claimed to know where she might get a stuffed seagull, a real one, to affix to the ceiling.
‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘too macabre.’ The floral would be better.
She stayed in bed until the news had exhausted all calamities and the weather man had confidently predicted many smaller inconveniences. Finally she pushed herself up over the edge of the bed; her feet patting about for the soft edges of her slippers whilst she felt on the table for her glasses.
***
The cars passing in the street and the kettle boiling on its stand set her teacups rattling on the shelf. So frail in their rattling that she feared they would spring and shake to slivers. Hurrying to catch her favourite with its pattern of Chinese songbirds; she tried to hum as she filled the cup with tea but the tune seemed to perish on her lips.
Seated at the little table with her tea she found her gaze drawn to her hand, pale, thin fingers clawed around the handle of her teacup. She saw and she could not help but be reminded of the bird’s skulls her brother kept lined up on his bedroom shelf.
“Tha’s a sparrow, tha’s a little kind of lapwing and tha’ big one, tha’s a crow.” He admired them for their lightness, for the way the sunlight filtered through them when you held them up. He had told her it was the lightness that allowed them to soar up into the sky and be utterly free.
She recalled too how his adored collection used to make her school friends shudder and he, in turn, thrilled with a boys delight at their horror. “T’is what we all come to in the end,” he said and laughed.
He had been right in the end. For was she not now dry and fragile as bird bones? She might be perfectly pleased with the transformation too if only she truly could lift up and fly away.
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