On the same page of the dictionary we found the words STOOL and STOOLPIGEON, two things that could be made out of the wood of the same tree. And somehow we ended up in a park, on a bench, with pigeons pecking around for breadcrumbs and revealing all the secrets they know. It’s no wonder that the last word the dictionary gave us to complete the story was FRIENDLESS.
Once upon a time there was a child that didn’t have any friends. In a park full of chairs, our child was the only one seated on a stool. Because friends have your back, you can trust them, but our child lived in a park where all the chairs were already taken. And that is why he grew up with a crooked back, without friends he could lean on.
There is a sign in the park. It says not to trample the grass. Surrounded by taken chairs and out-of-reach trees, the child is feeding pigeons. But they are no ordinary pigeons. Those pigeons have been carved out of wood. Wood that could have been used to turn stools into chairs, so that no child grew up staring longingly at the trees. But then there would have been no need for that sign, and our child would never have gotten his own fairytale.
The story ends with those pigeons revealing all the secrets they know. The truth about the friendships of that park. Friendships of convenience. Friendships by default. Friendships for the sole purpose of not being alone. The pigeons tell every ugly truth to our child. They are the villains after all. And the last hope in our child’s heart dies. The perfect friendship he would have liked to have, at least once in his life, becomes a dead weight in his chest. The thing that will make sure that his back remains crooked beyond repair, for the rest of his life.
I still believe in friendship. Because the sea is hope. The sea is endless. And I know that the horizon won’t betray me, that it won’t dispel the ideal friendship that keeps me afloat.
I know the truth. Friendship is just a made-up word. I don’t have feathers, I have blades of grass. I know it in my heart. Friendship is just the dream of a child, that will never grow up to be a tree.
You wanted to know the truth. You wanted to leave all those fairytales behind. You said that birds were not, and would never be, dreams. You wanted to know what real friendship was. And now you know. Don’t blame me. You asked for it. If your fairytales left a void, and you have nothing to fill it with, remember that it’s not my fault.
I don’t need friends, chairs or anyone else to have my back. I may only be a blade of grass, but I know how to stand tall. I don’t need help to straighten my spine. I know not to depend on others. And someday I will grow to be a sturdy tree.
I wonder if the grass is a child, just like me. If the blades are children, huddled together, sharing the same dream. If they dream of growing stronger, of supporting one another, and one day becoming a tree. Something mighty, a shared dream come true, a tree able to touch the sky. And I can only hope that the pigeons never share their truth with them, like they did with me. Because the kind of friendship that would allow someone to touch the sky doesn’t exist, and there is no dream strong enough to withstand that truth.
I am not friendless. I heard somewhere that a friend is someone who would always tell you the truth, no matter how much it hurt. In this park there are pigeons that hurt me, every day, until my eyes fill to the brim with tears and my back bends under that weight. Those pigeons are my friends, they are.
There are so many trees. I want to approach them. I want to rest my back against them. I want the reassurance of knowing that I can count on someone that won’t let me down. The sign says not to tread on the grass, but that warning is not the one I needed to hear. It should say to cover my ears. That the grass sings louder than the pigeons. That hurtful truth. That trees shed their leaves, and letting others down is what they do.
I wanted a chair, but all I got was this stool and a pigeon to remind me of what could have been, of the missing piece. The pigeon told me that beggars cannot be choosers, and if anyone knows, it would be a city bird like her. But I still would have preferred a real friend, like the ones in fairytales.
There are no pigeons in sight and I want to sing. I have a chair. I am happy. Happy. Happy. Happy. Because I have a friendship that lets me soar, higher than any bird.
I don’t have unrealistic expectations. I am perfectly happy letting the stars be. I don’t dream of floating among them. We are friends, and I am grateful that I get to fly kites with you.
A pigeon tried to tell me that friendship was like the sea. That there would always be a moon, trying to take control, trying to take advantage. I know that the pigeon wanted to hurt me, that it wanted to shatter my childish heart, but I was already seated on a chair, and it didn’t work. I already knew that life wasn’t fair. That in every friendship someone has to be the chair, and the roles are never reversed.
I am happy with my choice. I could have rested my back against a tree, but I like this wooden chair, because it suits my self-centered nature better. It has a purpose, having my back, and I believe that friends should do only that. They shouldn’t have leaves or dreams of their own, because those things would only get in the way, of all the things they should be doing for me.