Birdsong
By Isabel Ayre-Lynch
That birdsong wakes a memory of the most perfect and pure human you ever thought you knew during the most perfect and pure time of your life. Sometime in the late 90’s when life was still just about fresh but things were on the brink of going off. You’re walking when you hear it, down the path that follows the old train tracks that lead to - you don’t know where. A path you’ve walked so many times, directionless, although there’s only one direction you can go. One that’s forever full with footsteps. The conversations that mud must’ve heard! That birdsong is the most perfect and pure thing you’ve heard in at least a few weeks.
It’s almost as though he’s there. Talking to you on the telephone. You’re filled with the remembering of him, perfect and pure and full of joy and laughter and creativity. The crossword, the sketchbook, the paintings - You didn’t realise it at the time but he was your first inspiring force. Quietly, he’s there in the background of your being, maybe forever now. He used to do a perfect impression of that birdsong with a playful whistle that only a grandfather can achieve. His soul will pass by your soul every time you hear it.
Your time now is so different to his time then. At your age he was settled. They lay down roots, and stayed still, growing slowly. Your roots have been pulled up over and over, repotted almost always by some circumstance outside of your control, it seems, although you could have embedded roots elsewhere. If you knew how. If only you knew how? You chose to live in this place of situational evolution. Maybe that’s why you haven’t felt settled for more than a couple of years at a time - that’s how you came to be here and until you find a slower place of life you’ll always want to be somewhere else. You’re here now, still. You wanted to go somewhere else last time you were forced to pull up your roots but now you know you don’t really want to be anywhere at the moment. You’ve quite liked the idea of disappearing lately.
Slow down - slow down, think more, re-evaluate life. Honestly you’re sick of hearing it all over and over again. Talk about routine. We’re routinely having the same conversation every week. Routine in the minutiae doesn’t agree with you, you feel trapped and you want to flit between your selves, whoever they are. Be free be, young, be whatever, just not you, not this.
Two for joy. One for sorrow. Because when two become one it’s not always how the Spice Girls sang it. The ways memories come to people are different. Through visuals, the smell of freshly baked frozen pizza. Yours are triggered by songs and sounds. In your parents' dream house, the one with your last childhood bedroom, there was a bird fondly known by the name of ‘The Barbie Girl Bird’ she sang ‘I’m a barbie girl’ every morning and at various points throughout the day if you were home to hear it.
When you quit your life and left the city, you stopped listening to music. It triggered a melancholy of regret that you just couldn’t deal with and any note could knock you down when it used to lift you up and make you feel so grateful for your life. Now it made you feel unlucky to be alive. Best to avoid.
Music has always had this effect, the wrong chord sequence taking you to dark places you’d really, rather not. Better to just remove it from the equation. You don’t realise you have this auditory memory though, until you hear that birdsong and you’re reminded of him, pure and perfect. It brings you joy to finally realise this superpower that you have after twenty-eight years of life and to find him with you, so far from your times together and his home where he lay his roots.
Crows are the most intelligent birds, they say. You once listened to a podcast about crow funerals. They bring offerings to their dead, gather and mourn, and sometimes, they mate in front of the body. The sister of one of your friends used to feed the crows in her local park. One day a dog walker, a regular at the park, came over to her and said, “You know, the crows are always here just before you arrive, waiting for you to come and feed them.” If anyone tried to attack her in that park, the crows would come to her rescue. If she stopped coming to feed them, they would miss her. Wouldn’t it be nice to be missed like that.
You’ve still got a tattoo of two magpies on your ribs. You barely see it so it could not be there… it takes you by surprise sometimes. You got it when you were nineteen and about to leave your last childhood bedroom in your parents dream house. The tattooist warned that the lines would merge eventually, eventually turns out to be 10 years later. The lines have now merged, slightly. Two for joy, your magpies tell a story of your journey to your new life. Not your first new life but one of the early ones, for sure. How many lives have you had since then, it’s hard to say but you’re hoping for a few more. It keeps things interesting. Maybe that’s why you want to be free. There are many more lives out there for you to live. You’ve seen the positive effects of that great destructor change over the years.
Your most fearful self thinks maybe you’ll be trapped forever inside this version of you. You know that in his eyes you were a most perfect and pure soul, so you have that joy and laughter and creation in there somewhere. Your most hopeful self feels that you can set yourself free, and can feel the song growing inside. It’s a bright, sky blue falsetto, with a rosy salt lamp baritone in there, comforting and forgiving and energising at its core.