Rachel Glass

There were too many birds where I grew up. I blame Hitchcock’s film. I shouldn’t have watched it but even in my nightmares, the birds were beautiful.

The first bird I knew by name was our cockatiel, Smokey. I still find him in photos; when the light is just so, he flaps his wings, still alive. Still flying. Twenty years later, the owl at the bird sanctuary flew over my head with a message from God or a Christmas list for Santa. Her wings were wide, feathers soft when they brushed my cheek. The next morning, I hoped the ache between my shoulders meant my own wings were growing. But I was still on the ground, still wingless, still not a bird. Our first canary drowned in a shallow dish of water. Our second escaped. Dad caught him just before he found the open window and the sky.

A starling flew over my head while I ate breakfast. I lost count of how many times she flew into windows, leaving outlines of ghosts. I opened the doors and she still flew into glass, leaving us with more ghosts. It took her a while to find the exit. I found feathers long after she left. My nephew asked where they go and I said, They’re prayers, they find their way to God. I’m still waiting for Her to answer the feathers my starling left behind. There aren’t many birds or prayers these days, but I see a murmuration of starlings in the shape of a feather; a feather made of birds made of feathers.

Prayers that can’t find God.

Tiny Joys RACHEL GLASS

I make a cup of tea but you forget and it goes cold. I make vegetable soup with croutons every time you’re ill, you let that go cold, too. I crochet a new blanket, you pull a stitch until it frays and give the wool back to me. While you sleep, I fold paper starlings, hang them from your ceiling so a murmuration flies above your head. I catch dragonflies in glass jars, place them around your bedroom so their wings catch the light. I carve tiny whales from pebbles, turn the pod into a wind chime so you ’ll hear their song when the breeze visits through your window. I take out the thunder, sweep the clouds away, wash the stars and wish you were awake to see a constellation of a whale.

What I mean is: I take out the bins, sweep the dust away, wash the dishes and I wish you were awake to see the bubbles erupt from the bottle of washing up liquid. It’s a tiny joy but still joy as I pop each one, maybe it’s the wind in your wind chime but I hear a whale song each time a bubble bursts. When you wake up, I bring you fresh tea and you smile as you take a sip. It’s been so long since you’ve smiled or finished your tea. You say, I don’t need all this, you give me your empty cup. I say, I’ll make you some soup.