ORIGIN: Birds flocked to that statue whenever we walked our dog. But it ran away, and we took a photograph. This Brush is our way of saying we miss you.
I don’t know why I ever thought that cleaning this empty nest would fall on my parents. They made it clear from the very first. My dog, my responsibility. I paid for every toy and every treat out of my own pocket. I opened the door at the crack of dawn and walked that dog every single day of its life. The day I shrugged off her touch and proclaimed that I could dress myself, my mother washed her hands of me. From that day on, I cleaned my own room. Today, I leave for good. There probably won’t be any tears, it seems we are all out of them. Suitcases and trash bags. That was their parting gift. Their pockets are empty now.
Birds leave the nest. Dogs bury bones. Think of it as a time capsule. What part of your childhood would you preserve for posterity?
There was a stash of board games under my childhood bed. We were fiercely competitive, but I remember laughter in the air, not monsters under my bed. Victory stayed in the family, regardless of who lost. Who knows, maybe it’s just because we kept score, but I will always cherish those afternoons we flocked together, when we could have easily gone our separate ways and done our own things.
Slammed doors and raised voices. Those are the bones I would bury. Because they led me to music. In a harmonious, perfect home, music would have blended into the background. It would have gone in one ear and out the other, without leaving a mark on me. But those headphones were my escape. They left the lyrics no escape. I listened for someone who understood me. If it weren’t for that music, I would still feel all alone in the world. But I owe everything to the wounds they opened in my heart, every time they closed a door. Without them, I would never have reached out.
What childhood? My earliest memories start at the age of 6. By then, my mother had already fled the nest, never to be seen again. She must have taught me to use the stove, but I don’t remember her face. I don’t remember worms in the beak of a bird, only spaghetti packets and burns on my arms. Red. Like lipstick. But no one was there to kiss everything better. She took my childhood with her when she left. So, if you want something to bury, go ask her.
I used to jump on the bed and run in the hallway. The owners of the house didn’t care if I sang my heart out, wild horses wouldn’t have kept them from living their lives. I miss those days. Nobody cares about me, that hasn’t changed. But nowadays the neighbors’ complaints fall on my ears, and it’s starting to put a damper on my free time. I wish I hadn’t left the nest empty-handed. I wish I were deaf too.
Dogs aren’t homing pigeons, no matter what movies say. If you leave them on the side of the road, they don’t find their way back home. A bird’s nest might survive the winter, but that’s just a bunch of twigs. There’s no love, it’s just a biological imperative. A dog can find its way back to bricks and mortar, that’s it. Only what the owner says goes. Love doesn’t last a minute longer.
No, thank you. I already have a family. They have told me that they don’t love me anymore. But I know my tv shows. Good dogs are supposed to come back home, and that’s what I will do. I won’t let anybody else into my heart. I don’t need anybody else echoing those words.
Don’t blame the sun, birds don’t fly round the world. There’s a heart inside their ribcage, that’s the reason they turn back. When I emptied the nest, I made sure to leave my heart behind. Gratitude is all well and good, but they expected the rest of my life, not just the 18 years and change they gave me.
Do I look like I’m afraid of the big, bad world? Even if worse comes to worst, I won’t come back home with my tail between my legs. You can keep your comfort. I won’t admit defeat as easily as you did. I don’t want your permission to fail. You can keep your blessing. I will die trying.
Birds don’t build their nests out of roots. Twigs and fallen leaves are the preferred choice, though I have heard some birds use their own spit. I never met my grandparents; I barely knew my parents. I can’t read hearts, and they weren’t prone to use their words. One day my children will barely know me. That’s the definition of family.