________ ________ ________
2019-05-03 / \/ \/ / \
/ __/ /_ _/
My grandmother's yard has always been an / _/ / /
"old country" yard. No grass or flowerbeds, \_______/_\___/____/\___/____/_
instead all functional gardens, fruiting / \/ \/ / \
trees and space for animals. When my / _/ /_ _/
grandfather was alive he was always building /- / _/ /
things, mostly out of metal. Sheds, tools, \________/\________/\___/____/
carts, whatever he needed. My grandfather
passed away a few years ago now so his tools and workbenches and things have
mostly sat in the yard gathering dust and, likewise, as my grandmother has
gotten older the yard has gone neglected.
With her permission we're having our wedding in her backyard so spent a
good part of last week clearing the clutter and leveling the dirt as best we
could so we could lay lawn down. We found a lot of bits and pieces strewn
around the yard and a lot of tools lost in the dirt and covered over the
years.
We also found a lot of dead birds.
Birds, alive or dead are pretty common omens and dead ones make me uneasy.
Maybe you believe in omens, maybe you don't, but there's something about a
dead bird that makes me hyper-conscious of my own mortality and fragility.
In the corner of the yard was a bright blue shape that I assumed was a
piece of plastic or something but on closer inspection it turned out to be the
head of a Rainbow Lorikeet, buried to the neck in earth and debris.
The sight rattled me.
In that bird I saw myself, my current state and that of my mental health. A
fast, loud, colorful, clever thing slowly being consumed by damp cold. Wings
pinned by a build up of heavy, grey nothing.
