written by JEFF MALLORY
The Journey from Hopelessness
to Hope Village.
The red bird sat on the window ledge in front of me. I don’t know how long it had been there, maybe hours for all I know. I hadn’t been aware of much going on around me ever since daddy died. Momma always said, I held onto daddy’s coat tails and never let him get too far. It seemed when he passed he took the whole world with him, and I was lost. I almost quit writing this book right here, because it feels like words today are so plenteous and tired from excessive use. But I write on, and risk you thinking it’s just cliché, but hear my heart. They’re not. His passing drained the color from the rainbow and the melody from music. I couldn’t find my way back to life, because I had no idea where I was. I was somewhere between the land of the living and where daddy was now. I’d never been here before.
I only became aware of the red bird because it was tapping on the window. It was a cold December day, and the leaves were laying on the ground, all that remained of autumn’s glory was now a dull brown mat of decaying leaves. The sky was gray, or at least that’s how I remember it. The sky always seemed to be gray lately.
The burst of red came into view, and as he tapped his beak on the glass, we stared at each other. It’s often the unexpected, seemingly insignificant events that start big changes. I didn’t know it then, but the little bird wasn’t simply tapping on the glass, but was pecking at the cocoon of grief I was trapped in, like a bird pecking away at the shell when it’s time to be born. Cracks were forming in my grief, even though I didn’t know it.
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