‘Bird (abandoned) theory’
Artist of the above “Lady with Goldfinch” Kateryna Bortsova is a painter – graphic artist with BFA in graphic arts and MFA. Works of Kateryna took part in many international exhibitions (Taiwan, Berlin, Munich, Spain, Italy, USA etc.). She also won silver medal in the category “realism” in the “Factory of Visual Art” in New York, USA, and the 2015 Emirates Skywards Art of Travel competition in Dubai, United Arab Emirates. Kateryna is always open for commission, and you can view her work on Instagram: @katerynabortsova, or on her website: https://bortsova6.wixsite.com/bortsova .
Bird (abandoned) theory
The Home
I grew up in a house that was a declaration of birds. There, I learned the formulaic finger motions
to align binoculars. How a cardinal or robin or bluejay sounded against the rustling of oak leaves.
How feathers shine in pearl-gray morning light. A hundred plastic owl eyes insignificant and
Godlike in their stares always watching as if waiting for me to transform. I remained
untransformed, hoping they did not view my inability as reluctance or dismissal.
The Mother
Every morning, she would practice staring out the window behind our kitchen sink, craning her
neck to the left and holding her breath. I imagined she was watching the empty branches of the
hedge in our backyard as if reminding herself of some unknown vacancy only a mother could
know. After what seemed to me a very long time as I ate from a cheap plastic bowl, she would
perch on her tippy toes migrating her neck to look up towards the forgotten starspace for
unfurled wings. There was something in this ritual that I did not understand and could not be
taught. It frightened me.
The Dream
I dreamed that one of these mornings she would spread her arms, transforming into a
thick-feathered form with wings curving against her tiny legs. She’d peck the air twice (a kiss to
me and my sister) then shoot up into the vacant sky she looked towards each morning. The
moment where she would finally reveal her Icaurian bones. Often, the motherbird and departure
would change. She was a cardinal, blue jay, robin, goldfinch but never a woodpecker or hawk.
Sometimes she would hop on her thin bird legs out the back door then fly, others I’d open the
window to let her go.
The Spring
Mother had noticed when Spring began to heat the mulch, past the times when the freckled wild
berries twisted veins through our yard. She was desperate in these moments, perhaps to counter
the cyclical disappearance between motherbird, babybird and nest. She began tallying the
number of times motherbird left, leaving timestamps on coffee-stained napkins and mumbling
assurances to no one in particular that motherbird had work to do. She memorized the proper
nesting components– small sapling sticks, newspaper clippings, worm carcasses, thread.
The Moment
One morning, with rheum clusters coating the corners of my eyes she shook me awake. She
cupped socks in her hand as if holding delicate eggs, her eyes displaying an emotion I had not
felt yet. She held my hand with hers, always so cold and bony, and led me to the shedding
morning light. We neared the hedge with its towering branches like a bark and webbed gate. She
picked up my body, cradling me as a placenta ball and opened the leaf-wall. Hidden behind were
four blue pearls so tiny they reminded me of painted thumbnails. She stared at the babybird
chrysali, mumbling that their motherbird wouldn’t come home. I, gazing up at her, noticed a
single tear falling towards me like a soft petalled kiss against my cheek.
Lindsay Collier is a writer and educator living in Akron, Ohio. She teaches at Kent State University, working at the University Press, Poetry Center and Writing Commons. Her work is shaped by the landscapes of Northeast Ohio. She finds inspiration in the ordinary and mundane moments of life, reminding her that paying attention is an act of care. When not teaching or writing, Lindsay can be found running down sidewalks, attempting to sketch oranges or reading anything she can get her hands on.
