Birds Still Sing
Sunday, Jan. 10th, 2015
Tisshh. . .
Tisc-ka-tisss. . .
Tisshhh. . .
Tish-sha-tishh. . .
The tapping was light enough to wake me. But I kept my eyelids sewn. I didn't need to open them to see the secret swarms of swift sepia shimmering under a flash, then becoming magically invisible in blackness. I knew. I remembered. I would hear them most keenly, scheming from the walls, tip toeing around my head. Cloaked by clutter but still engendering plastic A&P, K-Mart, and dollar store bags to whisper in the night.
A house habited with demons. Those roaches had souls. They crawled on our mirrors, unbothered by their reflections. They loved our home. Made love in our home. Breeding by the day.
Friends did not break bread with us. But I was only embarrassed when it came to boys. That house was my birth control.
I went to Rite-Aid and the Goodwill last night. Left the bags on my floor. Too tired to put my new things away. This morning, the tapping was light enough to wake me. I knew it was them. Dancing, in celebration of their return. But I was wrong. It was yet another figmented transference of my childhood. What I thought was a frequent from my pesky old friends was actually the resonance of rain. Soft hard showers kissing the ground, gleaming like black diamonds and onyx. Bands of cemented window sills created a steady baseline. And for the first time, I noticed, birds still sing when it rains.