Mother sits in a chair beside the window, nursing a wounded bird. She had found it in the lawn; a spasm of white feathers, shivering in the cold, wet grass. Stroking its fragile body with the tender stroke of a single finger, I watch her from the doorway. Sunlight shrivels beyond the horizon, as moon-flower rises over the valley of muted violets. Mother nests the wounded creature between her breasts, gazing out towards a wilderness of stars. With precise, deliberate motions, mother rises from the chair and steps towards the kitchen sink where she carefully folds a piece of cloth, placing it onto the pastel countertop. She sets the bird onto the folded fabric and begins to wash her hands in the sink. The water runs cold over her skin, washing away the plasma. I stare at the flowers in the cloisonné vase, noticing that they have wilted. After drying her hands, mother fills a basin with milk, and washes the creature in a pool of white silk. I can hear it splashing as mother cleanses its wounds. Once the bird is clean and sterile, mother steps away, carrying the bird into the living room. I step towards the counter, propping my legs against the cabinet drawers as I pull myself up over the large metallic basin. As I stare into the pool, I hear mothers voice, a soft murmur; swirls of red and white whirling into pink.
Posted on: Wed, 02 Oct 2013 20:15:25 +0000
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