Birdsong

A bird lives in my chest, somewhere near my heart. When I first noticed it, I tried to peer as far as I could into my mouth with a flashlight. I saw the tip of a wing, bent over quickly, and shoved my finger down my throat, trying to gag so the bird would pop out. Instead, it settled deeper. I could feel its body putting pressure on mine.

My doctor nodded and put her hand over mine when I told her. Acknowledgement without words. She pointed to the silhouette of the bird in the X-ray. It was small, like a sparrow or chickadee, but its true species was indiscernible. Its bones overlapped with my bones, a maze of human and bird fused together at the tender space that covered my heart.

“Listen to it. Observe its behavior,” she said. She laid her hand over her own heart. “Sometimes it goes away, but it will take time and patience. It won’t be easy.”

I tried many times from then on to coax the bird out on its own, hoping it would come toward the small bits of fruit and seeds I set on my tongue. In the bathroom mirror, I watched for it, waiting for the tickle in my throat as it surfaced to grab the food. The act of trying to trick it never worked.

How is it possible that the bird had found its way into my body? I asked myself this question over and over for a long time. I replayed the days up to the morning I noticed it, unable to find the reason for the intrusion. Had it always been there, hidden among the muscle and bone? Had it slept all my life, small and unobtrusive, waiting for the right time to wake? I became consumed with understanding why the bird had chosen me. I stayed inside for weeks while it fluttered and pecked and scratched. I couldn’t sleep and refused to eat. I tried to starve it, but I gave up when the pain in my empty stomach replaced the strange discomfort of a peck or scratch.

Many nights after the bird appeared, I dreamed of chickadees and sparrows, perched on branches in snow-covered pines. Iridescent green hummingbirds and bright yellow finches flew low from flowers, to bush, to tree under the shadowy wingspan of crows. Red-tailed hawks watched for mice on power lines stretched over farmland. Fiery-red cardinals and their mates bounced from feeder to limb, sharing seeds. Inky blackbirds on rusty fences guarded rows of corn. I wondered if the bird in my chest longed to be free, if we shared the dreams. And if we shared the dreams, did we also share memories? I sorted through the memories of my life looking for the bird. I held each one up to the light, like strips of film, to see the details but could not find evidence of the bird’s existence. When I went as far back as I could remember and peeled away the layers like an onion, the bird was still. It waited patiently while I let the grief run through me, and when I couldn’t bear the weight of remembering anymore, it sang beautiful songs to help me fall asleep.

In time, I began to study its patterns. It pecked at my heart when I pined for the wrong person. It sang loudly and off-key if I pretended to be anyone other than myself. It fluttered when I hesitated to do what I knew to be right, causing vibrations that rattled my rib cage. I learned to listen to the messages, and to calm it, I would take long walks in the woods until I found myself again.

A bird lives in my chest. She is quiet. Sometimes I feel her move, a slight flutter, a gentle nudge. She is a reminder of the past and a glimpse of the future. When I sit outside in the early morning, between gentle breezes and sips of warm coffee, I listen to her in stillness. She chirps softly to let me know she’s still there.