Nobody Asked to Be a Pigeon
About a pigeon and my narcissism.
I come across a pigeon - mortally wounded.
He sits patiently, waiting for the end. So I sit, too. Sooner or later, school will let out. I’ll be around. Kids are jumping and hopping and sprinting and yelling. I watch the pigeon tense. Slow blinks. I crouch, people stare.
I am tossing pieces of english muffin near the pigeon. A mother and her son stand behind me. The son never talks, the mother speaks in broken english:
I saw him this morning…
What are you going to do? I have nursed two… I don’t have enough space…
no space…
Where is your water bottle? Get your water bottle…
She is searching her son’s lunchbox.
I think I’ll need to buy this pigeon a water bottle, if it’s his last meal. She wants to, but she doesn’t have the money. The woman opens her hand to reveal a nickel and two pennies. No, please, it’s okay. If I was this pigeon, I would want me to buy the water bottle. I’m without a child, a home, or family in this city. All I’ve got to worry about is myself, which can be very lonely. That’s why I’m starting to worry about this pigeon.
I tell her of my decision to buy a water bottle for the pigeon; she is unresponsive.
I spend a few minutes asking the clerk for extra bottle caps, small dishes, pigeon-approved plates. When I return, the mother and son have begun to walk away. The boy looks back, and I wave at him. They must have thought I was lying. Which would be weird of me.
He tugs on his mom, who turns to me.
—
It’s been another year. An entirely embarrassing endeavor. Just yesterday, another one of my dreams about you and her.
In this dream, you stare at me. You stare like we’ve never met, or like we’ve met but you hate me so much you decide to see through me. She’s beautiful and well-dressed, staring at me, too. And your little sister, she’s staring. Everyone is disgusted, because I hold the cheapest, smallest candle for you. And it’ll probably burn forever. I couldn’t tell you what it’s running on.
Yelling didn’t work, neither did crying. Blocking. Talking or not talking.
I feel as if a weight is constantly shifting on my neck. Sometimes I realize it’s your foot. It’s your gaze, too. I have to stop myself from reiterating the feeling I felt from you. Friends don’t care. Neither do you.
We all move on, and aspire to be greater things, but sometimes, all you can think about and all that’s left in your heart - is the worst person you ever met.
I realize that there is no solution to a broken bird, only acceptance. Fuck.
I cry in the laundromat.
I cry in my bed.
Any way you move looks like forward.
—
There’s nothing more to do, in my mind. I can feel my heart breaking as I look at a woman who lets her son acknowledge the tragedy of being a pigeon.
“Thanks for caring,” I say, and as I leave, I see them still hovering over our beloved.
