The Blue Bird Flies No More
The image is fixed in her mind, and even now she wonders if he recalls it as clearly as she can, clear water fresh from the well of memory. The river, rising and falling at their feet in slow, deliberate breaths, and the orange light spilling about them, bathing them in its dreamlike glow. Before them, the town was laid out as if it were painted. She had known with her whole soul, then, that she wanted to protect the child before her, so that he would never suffer again as he did in that beautiful, ruined moment.
These days though, she wonders how it was that she never came to realise that she had been a child herself, and just as small and defenseless as he. Little fledgelings, barely out of the nest.
He was different, now. Larger, leaner. They all were. Everybody was moving around so fast, changing and growing, their voices deepening, changing their hair, their faces. Shedding their down for flight feathers. It was as if she was trapped on a traffic island, and her old companions were the cars, zipping in and out of her sight, a constant blur that made her head ache.
Was that really all? Did that feeling have to stay confined to the past tense? The river still flows. The town is strong, its veins flowing with traffic, and its towers reaching for the sky. Every day, the sun rises and falls.
But could he ever be strong enough to cry in front of her again?
She cradles the moment in her arms, a broken bird which she fears will never again fly into that orange sunset.