For the Sweet Hearts

–Stories from the Ropewalks…

Wretched Robin

There was this robin. It was a twitchy, wretched, streetwise little thing. It took to following me around – like a park-bench drunk – every time I went into the back yard to do some gardening. It pestered me as though it knew I was a soft touch. But I was flattered by its attention (and impressed by its chutzpah), so I reciprocated the robin’s approach by offering him bits of broken biscuit. I’d often stop what I was doing and throw crumbs to the little feathery fiend on the sound of its vociferous voice. Before long, I began to look out for him; miss him even. On the days he didn’t appear, the anticipation of his sweetness would crumble like the broken biscuits in my coat pocket. And when he did show, inside I would dance at the spectacle of something so free choosing to be so close. He would chirp insouciantly while darting from flowerbed to gutter, from bush to fence, from washing line to willow.

It was a long shot, but ultimately I was hoping the little fellow would grow to trust me. The prize being he would perch on my finger. It was such an itsy-bitsy bird – with its scrawny little knock knees, pigeon chest, undershot beak, and boss-eye that always seemed to be looking just beyond my gaze. Even the chirper’s plumage was disheveled; its look most definitely 'carnival crack-head chic'. But he made me feel good (on the inside, where it really counts) and he sang for me…badly.

One late winter's day, while pottering around in the garden, I decided it was time to prune back the roses. So, I proceeded into the garage to get my secateurs. And lo and behold, if the little scamp didn’t fly up into the garage after me. I dunno why it should be so, but instinctively I shut the door behind it.  I wanted the robin to sit on my finger, see. More than anything, I wanted that little soul to trust me…if only for a spell.

So there we were, alone, its fuse-wire feet wrapped around the chrome crossbar of my cobwebbed bike. He was just looking at me, his carnelian-coloured chest pulsating, his onyx-bead eyes blinking. Tentatively, I lifted up my right hand and pointed out my index finger. Heart aching, waiting to exhale – I was statue still. Our shared encounter quite clandestine. It – the little twitterer – cocked its head as if it half understood my yen. And for a moment, just a moment, there was an eternity of silent impasse. But then the little fucker went and took off. First flying in circles around the brick built garage and then launching itself at the building's only window…which was closed – BAM! It hit the pane of glass and dropped behind some empty plant pots. It rose, and proceeded to circle and fly at the window a second time – BAM! And then again – BAM! With each frenzied self-harming thrust I recoiled in pain; its pain was my pain. Its fear was my fear. The tiny creature fell to the floor. I covered my eyes with my hands. Then came the silence, a silence so final it was as if sound itself had died. I would now get to hold him, and yet never again get to feel him.

Just then, appearing from behind the recycling bin – looking like a pre-op Amy Winehouse impersonator leaving via the back door of an illegal 24hr rave – the little shit-head half stumbled, half hopped across the concrete floor and took flight. I had little doubt that his destination would be the window. So, quickly I opened the garage door as wide as I could and ducked as it flew away into the blue yonder. It would be last time I ever saw my beloved little wretched friend. And yet, to this day, even a cursory trip to the garden would not be complete without a broken biscuit in my pocket.

The End

Now, the moral of the story is not: “Set love free and it’ll come back to you,” or any old bullshit like that. The moral of this love story is:

Sometimes, people are only with you cos you’re a meal ticket. But, you gotta love ‘em still, because sometimes, it’s the only way they know how to do it.

Fuck Valentine’s…

–Cheyelle.

COPYRIGHT ©2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:  CHEYELLE OMAR