A Different Blue(82)

yellow vase with a chip in it, and an apple green throw on my couch, surrounded by red and

yellow throw cushions Mrs Darwin didn't want anymore. Mismatched dishes in bright colors and

throw rugs to match filled the cupboards and covered the floors.

I sanded down the table and chairs from the basement and painted them barn red. Then I placed

three glass canisters with wooden stoppers in the center and filled one with red cinnamon bears,

one with skittles, and one with chocolate kisses. And and no one ate them but me. I found a

cuckoo clock with a bluebird that chirped on the hour and bronze Julius Caesar bookends for five

dollars at a garage sale. The bookends made me laugh and think of Wilson, so I bought them. I

built myself a book shelf – working with wood has its more practical advantages – painted it

apple green to match my throw, and filled it with every book I owned and every book Jimmy had

ever owned. My two Caesars guarded them seriously, keeping them aligned like obedient soldiers.

My wooden snake and a carving Jimmy and I had done together sat atop it, along with the

housewarming gift Wilson had surprised me with.

I had come home after my first big day of shopping to find a little package outside my door. It

had a note attached and BLUE written across the envelope in bold letters. I unlocked the door

and dumped my bags in the entryway, unable to contain my curiousity.

I opened the package first – I couldn't help myself. The card could wait. Inside was a little

porcelain blackbird with bright blue eyes. It was dainty and well-formed, with fine detailing

and sooty feathers. Standing in the palm of my hand, it was maybe four inches tall from head to

foot. I placed it carefully on my countertop and tore open the card bearing my name.



Blue,

You never finished your story. The blackbird needed a safe place to land. I hope she's found it.

Congratulations on your new nest.



Wilson



My personal history, the one I had tried and failed miserably to write, was included with the

note. I read it once more, noting the way I'd left it, with the blackbird hurtling toward the

earth, unable to right herself.



Once upon a time there was a little blackbird who was pushed from the nest, unwanted. Discarded.

Then a Hawk found her and swooped her up and carried her away, giving her a home in his nest,

teaching her to fly. But one day the Hawk didn't come home, and the bird was alone again,

unwanted.

She wanted to fly away. But as she rose to the edge of the nest and looked out across the sky,

she noticed how small her wings were, how weak. The sky was so big. Somewhere else was so far

away. She felt trapped. She could fly away, but where would she go?

She was afraid because she knew she wasn't a hawk. And she wasn't a swan, a beautiful bird. She

wasn't an eagle, worthy of awe. She was just a little blackbird.

She cowered in the nest hiding her head beneath her wings, wishing for rescue. But none came.

The little blackbird knew she might be weak, and she might be small, but she had no choice. She

had to try. She would fly away and never look back. With a deep breath, she spread her wings and

pushed herself off into the wide blue sky. For a minute she flew, steady and soaring, but then

she looked down. The ground below rose rapidly to meet her as she panicked and cartwheeled

toward the earth.