By Parson Thru
The blackbird sings from high in a neighbour’s tree.
He reaches an adjacent street, from where comes a faint response.
They banter and mimic each other, an overlapping entanglement like drinkers in some high-ceilinged bar of Madrid.
“Why are you going out there?” she asked.
“What’s out there anyway?”
“You’re here to keep me company.”
A 1950s illustration, “Beano” and “Dandy” newsprint. The family leaning out of their seats, fixed to the screen.
Her dream, of domestic life.
The chill sets in. I forgot how the winter temperature lingers on through spring. The delusion that fosters resentment. Memories. Whitsun holidays on the cheap.
And it’s still only April.
In a couple of weeks, the switch will be thrown in Madrid. Coats hung up, jumpers laid away for the summer. Warm evenings filled with buses, blue and brightly lit.
The blackbird hops on the lawn, teasing treats from the soil. He’s youthful, sleek and black. When he flies, I feel the beat of his wings.
The female – brown, not drab – chip chip chips from the midden by the greenhouse. She turns her head on its side. Looking up? Listening, maybe. A crow overflies. Chip chip chip. She skips across the lawn, wings hanging heavily by her side.
The toilet flushes again. Water spatters, teeming down the plastic spout. The bathroom window is lit. The voice low and resentful. She thinks she can’t be heard, like a driver picking his nose in open view.
There’s an ugliness abroad alright, but I hold on tight to la belleza.
WhatsApp a photo to N. Crescent moon in a darkening sky, first star, or planet, nearby, against the evening glow.
“It looks like a flag.” I suggest.
“Turkey.” comes the reply. They're beginning to break their fast.
Monday's a better day for holding on.