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A
Sweet Bird Called Home Randolph had to think about that for a moment because he wasn’t completely sure of what the answer might be. His books were like dreams; and sometimes like nightmares. And the best were a combination of both. That’s one of the things momma had taught him . . . the importance of embracing light and shadow in one stroke. “We knew she was dying,” he said. “But it’s not the same. Is it?” . “What’s that got to do with your novel?” Everything, he thought. “How does it feel to always be running?” Herbert asked. The room was brimming with bright light; it had been momma’s reading room. The walls were lined with bookshelves, all of which were boiling over with delicate, colorful spines . . . bones of wonder, momma called them. And that light seemed to pass right through Herbert as if he wasn’t there at all. “Running?”
Randolph didn’t expect any less of his older brother. Sadly, those children who had gathered at momma’s grave had gathered more trenchant philosophies than Herbert would ever assemble because outside of these walls there was very little. There were no more birds, nor freedom. The was only fear, huge and primitive; a wall before everything else. Randolph couldn’t help but feel sorry for him; and yet he had little to say. At night Herbert would sit in momma’s chair. He would wait for the children to come and he would cry. He knew they weren’t coming, but in some ways, he felt, that was a good thing. Besides, what would he tell them? What could he tell them? I’m a lonely, sad man threatened by madness? They would never understand that. How could they? And than momma would come out on the porch to sit in her favorite chair. Her ghost felt itchy like angel hair when it filled Herbert’s large, hapless heart. “Momma? Did I ever tell you that I love you? I can’t remember.” “You didn’t need to,” she explained. “I always knew.” “Randolph’s still here,” he said. “I know. But he’ll be gone soon. Than it will just be us again . . . and the children.” “Will the children be able to see you.” It excited Herbert to think that things could be the same. “Doubtful. But the stories will stick. That I’m certain of.” “Yes. I suppose.” Herbert peered into the warm-womb darkness of all summer nights. “How come you never told me and Randolph no stories?” “I did. You just don’t remember. After your daddy died I told them all the time. You were very young. And than you weren’t interested anymore. It was a sad time.” “Because of daddy?” “Because of everything.” Randolph thought of going out and telling Herbert not to do it anymore. It disturbed him greatly. But tomorrow he would be gone and wouldn’t be back for a very long time. There were many things to think about; and many sadnesses to overcome. It wasn’t even a matter of loss. Momma had lived a long time. Randolph thought of childhood, ghosts, dreams and wondered if his brother knew any of these things as intimately as he. There was longing in his thoughts . . . and sacrifice. Momma never would have wanted this and somewhere in the darkness Herbert knew this. His/her voice was incapable of letting this go and had always spoken of exactly the same things. Randolph imagined holding his brother in a jade colored field, the wind turning the blades into water. They were young and already so much alike. Sadness equating truth swirled in both of their eyes. They repeated momma’s stories to one another and wondered at just how much was true. And the sky was still blue. And the birds . . . “Goodbye.” Randolph offered his hand. Herbert remained silently despondent and in many ways he hated his brother. It wasn’t fair that he was leaving like this. Not when momma needed him most. Herbert turned toward the sad, sagging house without so much as a goodbye. The field they had played in as children was nearby, yet endlessly distant. Your dying brother, thought Randolph, heading to his car. A Sweet Bird Called Home lay stacked in neat piles on the table. The author sat behind it, his fingers twisted and aching from signing all day. There was another hour to go, but he really didn’t mind. He had dreamed of this too; and long before the first novel was even a thought. He just knew. It was in the same way he knew they would eventually make it here. Randolph smiled at the children before opening the book to the first page; the dedication page. It read: In the memory of momma . . . and my lovely brother, Herbert. And these ghosts, these children, made sure that he was signing in ink. 1 2 |
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