We ran over a bird on the dusty road today. Mum was driving me home we saw him and every thought in my mind was fly.. fly oh fly fly fly but it didn't even try. I saw him flutter on the road behind us and Mum said well I couldn't help and I didn't hear because I was shedding thirteen years of my age and took off my shoes and ran back when we'd reached home and saw broken legs and that it was only a baby. It blinked at me and its mouth was open and because my shadow was too thin I took off one of my shirts to shelter it from the sun and waited for them to bring the gun. When someone came I went away but I heard it cry and heard its parents cry and heard me cry because I could never handle anything and why didn't he try to fly away.
My mother told me once, you were always sensitive, and quiet so quiet.
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For some reason I was told recently by a dearest friend who will remain namel(auren)ess that lately I have seemed depressed and that the things I think are terribly low, and why do I always look at the past, and that she does not like it when I am not happy. It made feel responsible when she said that. It is true that my books are all heavy with my brain now and sometimes my heart hurts. And I may have mentioned this before but I am almost getting somewhere. I had an idea to have a place to keep the pretty things, like a dusted front parlor for all company that wants to stay, practically a world away from the room in the back that is dim and full of music, where Christina is hard at work tapping away the mess in her mind.
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