Enjoy the Silence

Sunday was a hard day.

It was Brad's birthday—Butch, as I always called him. I remember the first time I used that name. We were tearing apart the dining room in our first house, him on the far side, hammer in hand, tank top clinging to his back, jeans frayed at the knees. Sweat shimmered on his skin, making him look glazed, like a cake fresh from the oven. His arms and shoulders were sculpted, football-player strong. He was short, bald, muscled, inked.

I loved to look at him.

“Hey, Butch!--- Can you pass me that rag?”

He was bent over doing something, and he popped up like he was stung. He blinked at me, then melted, getting all gooey. That expression, you know the one. You look at something that you can't live without? Well, he had it. His head cocked to the side, his arms flew up together, lacing his fingers, and he pressed them under his chin. One leg kicked out like a dancer does.

“Aww --- I always wanted someone to call me that,” he said, all drawled out and whiny like he was a balloon leaking.

Yep! That helped.

It stuck.

He was always my Butch.

So, back to Sunday.

It was his birthday, also the day he died. I've had a cake every year. I remember the first year, just a simple cake. His favorite—chocolate with vanilla buttercream, extra icing, and loads of flowers. By the fifth year, each cake carried a heart on the lower right, with a number marking the years he's been gone. I’m picking up the twelfth cake today—

or so I thought—

They gave me all kinds of excuses about bad employees and computer glitches. I didn't care. Your employee situation doesn't change the fact that I didn't have a cake. I wanted his cake.

It was my ritual.

I left broken.

Walking to the car, all sad--- tears on my cheeks. I heard him laugh. Not at me, but the situation.

“It's my birthday and they forgot the cake.”

His joyous laughter filled my ride home.

Monday--- 'they promised to fix this'--- I returned.

No cake.

I saw Brad rolling on the floor, laughing. Feet going and fists a hittin' the floor.

“I love you, Manny.”

I doubted it.

I tried to brush it off as Tuesday came.

Back to work. I hoped it would leave my mind. I shared what happened with a co-worker. I cried. Then I got busy. I needed a mattress. I had to clean a unit for the lot, and we changed the mattresses on all the used ones. After getting the key to unlock the pod, I rotated the bars to open the heavy doors. Oh, I should tell you, the pod is a forty-foot cargo container. It's dark, dingy, and kinda creepy.

Like a dungeon.

A chemical smell-- like new stuff mixed with dead things.

As an artist, I see things as art. The light split the darkness in half. A gash straight up and down, getting wider as the doors separate. It's the opening scene where they are exploring a crypt. You always hope to find treasures, but there are just parts for RVs. It makes me sad.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, so everything looks haunted and old.

The mattress boxes are on the left, about halfway down the length. Stacked on their sides like playing cards, you find the size you need and select one. I found the queen-size. There were two stacks. One with four, one with two. I thought of rolling the higher one down to the lower. When you get 'old,' as a friend calls me, you want things done as easily as possible.

I'm not old--- you are.

Then something changed my mind. Dragging it to the door and setting it down, I saw a flutter. A flurry of color. I was startled. My eyes hadn't adjusted to the brightness yet, and as I looked closer.

I realized it was a bird.

It was small. Beautiful and green. It had a piece of pink twine wrapping one leg that was stuck under the packing tape used to construct the box. He had been attached to it at the factory where they were made. I reacted quickly, you know, for being the old guy. Placing my hand over the frightened thing, I carefully sliced through the twine with my pocket knife and closed my hand around him. I knew it was a him. He was very vivid. Only boy birds are pretty. Oh, stop—— I can use the word pretty. I’m gay. Get over yourself.

I brought him close to investigate, turning him towards me, feet first.

“Now, where have you come from?” I didn't know. For all I knew, the factory could have been in China. I'll look into that later; right now, I have to save this bird. Anyway, what I saw was just crazy. One of his tiny legs was completely wrapped with it. It reminded me of the wraps on the arms of mummies from the old horror films you see on late-night Saturday TV. You know, those old Boris Karloff flicks.

I turned him back over and looked at his face. Eyes that were black and beautiful looked at me. Frightened, chirping madly.

“I'm not going to eat you,” I said softly. “But this won't do--- let's get this off you.”

The cheeping continued.

Keeping him tightly in my hand, I used my pocket knife to carefully remove the twine. I had some success. Small at that, but I managed to get a few bits off. Being so tiny, he made my hands too big. My thumbs and fingers just couldn't get a grip on the small, thin strips of twine. I knew I needed help. I raced inside, holding him close to my chest, to the two people I knew who would help me.

The three of us went to work, with diligence and delicacy, as we tried to remove it. He struggled and fluttered, still so afraid. We paused several times. I reassured him softly. I kept telling him we weren't going to eat him. I couldn't give up. Even a tiny bit left on him would prevent a normal life. At one moment, I was talking to him, and I held him close to my face. His eyes were still too big for his head. He had chirped so long his voice was gone. He was overwhelmed, or so I thought. He shut his eyes and clinched his claws.

“No buddy, you got to keep your claws open or we can't get it off--- please.”

I was so worried he was giving up. Another co-worker walked by. You know the one, we all have them, all high and mighty. We lesser beings don't deserve to breathe, type.

“Stop wasting your time, it's just a bird.”

We three glared at him.

This bird deserved to live just as much as you—— you jerk.

I just couldn't give up.

After several more long, agonizing minutes, tugs and twists, and begging him to un-clinch. Soft words and finger rubs to the head, patience and smiles--- the last tiny fragment of pink twine came off.

His foot was free.

The three of us sighed at the same time--- then cheered.

He was in my hand for a long time, but I knew he was still alive. I could feel his rapid heartbeat on my palm. I placed him on my chest as we walked to the sliding doors. The girls came too. I whispered to him.

“I'm proud you made it through this. You were very brave. I want you to have an amazing life now. Know you are loved.”

We made it outside.

The wind was cool. I didn't realize how nervous and hot I was. My shirt showed the sweat rings I had earned from trying to save this bird. With one final blessing,

“Live your best life”----

I opened my hand to his world.

Nothing happened.

I was wracked with fear. I had killed him. For days, he had been in the pod.

Five to be exact.

Hanging upside down in the dark.

Alone.

I'm not sure if animals can think, but if so, I can't imagine what. He must have felt all hope was lost.

I felt like that in the hospital when my Butch was dying.

Dying is hard work.

You're body is busy trying to catch up to what your mind has already accepted. Those left behind can't always accept. We have to move past the day. Grief never leaves us- we just move further from the event.

When I opened the doors on the pod, the light finally came in. He had to know something was happening. I hope he thought he was being given another chance. That someone was going to save him.

My sister gave me mine.

She called me 'broken.' She helped me heal. She tried to cut off what was binding me--- and set me free.

“You're less broken today. I see the old Manny again,” she said recently.

I had good support, but she helped me the most.

After all this, I come along and kill him?

I looked back down at the little guy, his feathers glistening with a layer of sweat from my hand. He fluttered a bit. He turned his head, looking right at me.

A glimmer.

A sparkle.

Maybe he was acknowledging me--- I want to think so--- and in a flash.

Almost too fast to see.

He was in the air.

I watched as long as I could until the tiny dot disappeared.

I stood in the silence of the moment.

I smiled.

I felt everything lift from my shoulders.

It took me a couple of days to sit with what happened. How could a bird change a person's view? Just like me changing my mind about the box. Something, or someone, knew I needed this to happen. You have to wonder if there is more to everyday events than you realize. Can you really learn something from saving a bird? So much to process. Why did I find him? Why did I choose that box? What if I hadn't? What if we didn't need a mattress at all?

But in the end----

This is how I see it---

That day, with all my aches and pains, trials, and mishaps over the cake, I thought I was the hero. I saved a bird. It turns out that a tiny, green, feathered person came to rescue me.

I had something to learn.

I hope I let him teach me.

Sometimes we hold onto things. We get twisted in them. Taped to them. Held fast--- upside down in the dark, feeling all hope is lost. We tell ourselves things that just aren’t true. We start to believe them. Words have power. To help- or to hurt.

Then a sliver of light appears.

Getting wider and brighter. Someone finds you---

and cuts you free.

You struggle---

You're afraid---

But in the end, you're soothed. You are comforted and held close. You are talked to and encouraged.

And once everything is fixed, you fly away.

This is what letting go feels like. Because when I opened my hand, and he finally saw his freedom---

I was watching myself begin to fly.

I will always miss my Butch--- but now I can remember him.

For My Butch

10/12/68--- 10/12/13