I had a dream that someone threw away a bird’s nest and I could feel it’s presence beneath the trash. With gentle and humble hands I pulled away the broken egg shells, the paper towels, the endless and impotent packaging, until I found the delicate binding of twigs and repurposed foliage and reached to extricate it from the rubble. The sight of this home discarded with such little care broke my heart. I pulled the nest to my breast and wept for things lost.
“It makes sense to nest at this stage in the relationship.”
I nod my head like a bird bobbing on a branch.
“You are creating something, building something. It is only natural you would want to coop up together at home.”
As she spoke the words, I knew them to be true. I was not used to building nests, just flying from them.
Words have reached a plateau. I find myself mute of every new thing I am feeling. Instead, I pour feeling into food, into the creating of meals, and hope that you’ll eat my thoughts and understand them. I remember holding my mother’s books before I could read and hoping just by lovingly caressing the binding, the pages, by looking at the words in print, I would comprehend their meaning and reach enlightenment through transfusion. Hopes for the future get scrambled in the eggs. The glow of warmth I feel gets baked with the bread. I am picking out the best twigs of my youth and building a foundation. Can you taste my meaning?
*Illustration: Daphne by Ellie Coates