The Bird's Not Coming HomeTuesday, March 25, 2014
|Era tan bueno by M1k3|
The bird's not coming home. It's not resting in its nest nor is it cruising in the night sky chasing moths and singing moonlight lullabies.
No, it's no longer flapping its feathery wings because it's dead smack on the tarmac, defeated upon landing. The second it's buoyed by the wind, it's mere puppet, fragile and exposed to invisible elements. The airspace no longer friendly, the bird could not foresee.
The person has left the building you call her body. She's gone, no longer encased by her flesh, is she set free? Memories of her recalling good memories of us floats back into the mind like foamy ocean waves grazing familiar territory.
When someone's taken, ripped away from the living, breathing entity, that is the conglomeration of their essence, their totality and your refusal to believe it to be the stark reality, you quick remedy is to make dissociation your best companion.
And while the setting sun takes on a ghoulish specter and the external world spins on a locus that is outside the trajectory of the weary, the quiet darkness may be both a savior and a treacherous enemy.
It's no longer there, my dear, the bird has been quietly set forth to flee into a realm beyond its original conscious intention and just before the light is shone on such a tragedy, someone's dearest has ceased to be.
This is written in loving memory of my aunt who has gone to the other side and a tribute to the lives lost on the missing MH370.
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shanaz@RS | 2:07 AM | Labels: short prose therapy