Sunday

         Every Sunday, it would fly to the window.  Every Sunday, its little eyes would glance around the small living room through the window and see Henry in his same great comfy green chair either sleeping, reading, or watching the news.  Every Sunday, it would whistle a sad sweet tune of long lost summer, faded flowers and past happiness.  Every Sunday, it would fly away; and every Sunday, Henry would watch it and wonder what it was like to be able to take the wind beneath his outstretched arms and fly.  And yet, every Sunday, Henry continued to sit in his great comfy green chair, always on the inside of the window.
         But why would Henry want to move? He was living comfortably with everything he wanted or needed.  He had a house of his own, a steady job to pay for the groceries, a large collection of books and newspaper along with a television set to keep him entertained for hours.  On top of all this, Henry had just stocked his fridge with enough frozen dinners to feed his moderately round stomach for at least another month.  He did not need anyone else, not a lover, child, or friend.  He did not need a dog, cat, or even a fish to take care of.  He lived alone, and on holidays he would make the 30-mile drive to his niece’s home to get his fill of people and company and family.
         Meanwhile, Henry sat deep in his great comfy green chair.  He looked around him at the little living room surrounded by bookcases full of stories and adventures.  He pulled his glasses out of front pocket and carefully placed them on his long nose, turned on the old lamp which rested on the old wooden table, and picked up the remote control to his old television set, flicking to the nearest station that was broadcasting the news.  This was Henry’s everyday.  Many times he would fall asleep as images of theft, hate, football, and community flickered across the television screen.  Henry would wake in the dark of night unsure of where he was, only to find a late night infomercial for a machine that would make your abs, thighs, and glutes sexy.
         Henry hadn’t lived a great life by any means, but he had lived…somewhat.  He was the definition of “ordinary”—and he was almost content with that.  He had found a path that worked for him; he wasn’t going to get off it or make a left turn any time soon.  Henry did not want to push the accelerator; he preferred to coast.
         But every Sunday, a bright colorful little bird would fly to his window, and it would sing every Sunday.  Though Henry really did not care for other creatures, he rather liked the little bird that seemed to brighten every lonely Sunday.  Henry liked that it came to him and never failed to appear—rain, snow, or shine.  He wondered where the little bird came from and who it visited after him, or perhaps he was the only one the bird visited.  He took pride in this last thought—that the bird would choose him and only him.  He would chuckle to himself, of course the bird would only visit him.  He had a wild idea the bird was a god, or an angel more likely, watching out for him.  He had an even wilder idea that the bird was a secret lover of the past, and after her despairing life without him, she watched Henry every Sunday, caring for him with every glance.
         One Sunday as Henry watched the bird watching him, it fluttered to the window ledge, sunlight surrounding its presence.  In this unprecedented step, the bird cocked its head to one side and proceeded to jump through the open window into Henry’s small living room.
         “I’ve been watching you.”
         Henry turned to find the bird sitting comfortably on his left arm.  He looked curiously around the room and then curiously back at the bird.
         “Excuse me?” he responded cautiously.
         “I’ve been watching you,” the bird said again in a small feminine voice.  “Why do you sit alone?”
         Henry stared at the bird, his wildest ideas coming true, and yet he was unable to comprehend anything.  There was a talking bird on his arm!  Not a parrot or a cockatoo, but a songbird that whistled to him every Sunday.  Before he could make anything of it, he answered, “So that I can focus on the news and my reading.  I prefer to have peace and quiet.  Why do you sit on my arm and speak to me?”
         The bird, ignoring the question, “You have always loved to read, that’s true, but you weren’t always alone with this talking box, were you?”
         “I am alone because I choose to be alone, and I will always be alone.  I like it that way.”  Henry did not particularly like personal questions—ones that dug a bit too deep. 
         “O no,” the bird continued nonchalantly, “I remember her.  She had a garden in the backyard.  It was lovely.  There’s not much to say of it now, but the apple tree by the window still blossoms.  It is still beautiful.”
         “I’ve been meaning to cut it down,” Henry said with anger slowly rising within him.
         “Why would you want to do that?” the bird fluttered up to his shoulder, speaking right to his face.  “You know that was her favorite.  I wouldn’t visit you anymore if you did that.  I sing for her in that tree.”
         Henry turned his head only to see the little bird looking curiously up at him, staring into his eyes, almost pleadingly.  Looking out the window, he saw the apple tree engulfed in sunlight.  Its blossoms filled the air like snow.  He looked back to the dark room in which he sat with a strange talking bird on his shoulder. 
         “It is lonely here without her, isn’t it?”  the bird said softly.  “How did she leave you?”
         Henry was lost.  Of course he was still in his living room in his great comfy green chair, but his mind was far from his house.  “It was in a story,” he said from far away.  He felt like he should cry but he could not.  “She wrote me a story and was gone.  She knew I was unhappy; she could not live as she was anymore.  But I loved her; I just wasn’t real or dangerous enough.  I don’t take chances, I read them.  She could not change me.”
         “How did she write it?”
         “I don’t remember.”
         A breeze came in through the window, spilling white apple blossoms all over the floor.
         “Henry, you’re still not happy, and that is all she wanted.”
         “I am happy.  I am alone.  I am not risking what I already have.  I make no choices.  This is enough,” Henry said as he stood out of his great comfy green chair.  The little bird flew up to the window and perched there in the sunlight with its head cocked to one side.  “This is where I live, where the choices are already made, where I do not have to do anything, where I can live and be happy without her, because she is dead.”
         “You killed her?”
         Henry turned on the bird, and picking up a book on the old wooden table threw it at the bright creature on the sill.  The bird flew out the window as the book fell out of sight, and Henry stumbled back to his chair, sobs wrecking his whole body. 
Henry opened his eyes.  The room was dark.  He looked up at the window.  It was dark outside.  Henry took off his glasses and turned out the light.  Getting up out of his great comfy green chair with some difficulty, he went to bed.
Henry fancied he was the only one who could see the bird; until one day, a small boy from the house next door shot it down with a lucky stone from a sling shot.  It fell to the foot of the apple tree, where it stayed till Henry called someone to cut down the apple tree.  Meanwhile, Henry sat in his great comfy green chair.