Jane Loves Birds.
"Jane, there's nothing left in there. Jane…come on honey."
I pull her away from the birdfeeder; she is sticking her fingers under the guard, trying to collect the remaining lonely kernels that the bluejays and crows couldn't reach. "Look, I'll fill it for you." Jane shrieks as I try to move her aside, and steels her grip on the railing. She stares, transfixed, into the little glass window, like it's a television or a drier in a Laundromat. "Finch," she whispers to the glass. It's January, and cold. The trees are bare and there are no finches. "Yes, dear," I sigh, and pour the black oil sunflower seeds into the feeder. The cardinals love them. Now she is docile again, and I guide her back into the house, remove her slippers caked with wet snow. I pull open the drapes of the big window so she can still watch, but as suddenly as she lit up and sprung to action, she is once again pale and gloomy.
I run my fingers through my hair. A year ago, my hair was chestnut brown. It doesn't really seem practical to be shocked about some salt mixed in with the pepper, not at my age. Especially looking at Jane. At twenty, one would expect her visage to be untouched by the stealthy hand of age, but her brick red hair, wildly full, displays a broad swath of white above her left ear where she was struck.
They said once the gods touch you, you become invincible, that the pale mark of a lightning strike selects you as a witch, because the gods never strike the same place twice.
You'll never have to worry about tasting their judgement now. Jane, there was so much understanding in your gaze, sometimes you got confused, but at least you tried. Now I'm the one struggling to translate your actions into meaning.
Jane whimpers and I bend down to look in under all that hair. My white work shirt is open one button too far, because I could never get the damn hang of collars. I lift her hair and get close enough to kiss her forehead. When pain shocks me to jump away from her, I look down and see blood on her fingers- she has raked her nails from my ear to my collar bone. The shirt is ruined.
When a female cardinal lights on the branch of a low winterberry bush, I feel certain Jane will notice. I even run over and point, but she sighs and draws the curtain back across the day and closes her eyes.
The Past::The Future
Part of the Wordmongers' Masque.