Dreaming with the birds at her window

This is a short story about life and the seeking of light as a symbol of hope,

a feeling that we all are in great need of.

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Helen was a girl.

She,

was alive.

You may say that everyone is alive and so this world shouldn't describe her.

But let me tell you this: One can know if somebody's alive by looking in the eyes.

Nowadays, just the idea of looking into people's sad pupils makes me feel grey and empty.

Because I never seem to find any sign of life, even atificial, in those forgotten eyes.

So yes, Helen was alive.

Helen had habits, one of which, as you may say, quite unique.

She woke up everyday at 6:30, opened her window, looked at the sky… and listened to the birds.

It was her way of starting the day, whispering a sweet little "helluuuuw" to those tiny fluffy creatures.

She had big dreams, great expectations

and many shades of courage she carried to school every day in her flasshy green backpack.

One thing you shall remember–she was happy.

She never wanted more.

She nerver needed less.

So when she first heard of the sad eyes sickness she didn't blink.

"It's too far away," she thought.

And she went back to her book, coffee in hand,

forgetting all about what she had just heard.

Behind the cold glass window, the birds were singing.

When a few people were seen weeping in the streets,

Fear started spreading.

Two sicknesses at the same time.

The first, visible, coming from the strangeness of the outside;

the other one-the one no one spoke of,

growing

slowly

inside the insecure bodies of the lost crownd.

But it didn't touch her.

It couldn't

touch her.

She was young, full of joy

and sometimes angry.

But sad,

no. Never.

So, she continued living her life, telling her usual daytime stories to the birds.

Until one day,

Helen had no stories to tell.

No more laughter, no happy tears.

There was simply nothing.

No one.

The sad eyes sickness had drowned away the feelings.

No smiles to be seen.

Only abandoned, weary and uncolored

eyes.

The life she knew, wipped away. All she created. Gone with the wind.

Lost and locked away under the dust of her old wooden cupboard.

Pieces of Memories forgotten.

Helen lost track of time.

The only thing she knew and remembered to do

was watch the birds.

And she couldn't leave.

She was stuck between the brutal silence of the walls,

the bored spirit of her pyjama brother

and the phantoms of her parents, coming out at night.

They had decided that from now on, she was nobody.

The robotic, exemplary kid, following instructions.

A lost soul in the basement, waiting for the first lights of Summer.

The one thing that kept her standing, was a feeling quite close to hope.

It was faith.

Faith in herself, in the origins of her strengh and various weknesses.

Somehow, she knew she could get through this unusual storm.

Face it,

Embrace it

And eventually destroy it, leaving the remains and the sparks buried in a few people's minds.

Then, bring back her joyful busy life around.

Her.

Her body, spirit, hands and dried lips.

She was the only one deciding, and she understood the full meaning of it.

The birds had told her she could rise, over the eye of the storm.

And she was aiming to rise.

The girl, alive, Helen.

When the leaves started boiling, Helen started singing.

She couldn't create stories for the birds, so she sang softly with them.

At first every morning, then twice a day, then all day long.

And slowly, the house started looking brighter. More colourful.

She started expanding her faith to the plants she grew in the living room.

Valentines roses she hoped to one day give to him, the one she had on her mind.

Faith flew out one day,

but came back as fast as it could, when the first tear fell

loudly

on the cold floor.

So Helen,

who had gone from happy to sad,

cheerless to depressed

and miserable to a beautiful mess of growing joy,

started thanking the ones she loved.

And the things she loved.

She breathed the air from her favorite books, she kissed her teddybear, she whispered sweet thanks to her dusty vinyl when it played the magical notes of Tchaikovsky.

It the became a tradition to thank the birds.

Even when They let her go out

and even when she went back to the halls of culture.

She managed to be there every day, always opening her window

in memory of their support and their silet help.

To thank them for showing her the hidden light

and teaching her to keep it bright.

After the sad eyes sickness had completely disapeared, she continued to crack, widly,

the grey window of her little room.

One day,

She noticed that a bird was missing.

Then slowly, day by day, the birds disapeared.

She was quite puzzled by it, but not very upset.

The sickness was over, after all.

Sometime after the beginning of this event,

she woke up on a lovely rainy day and raised an ear to listen to the sounds usually playing outside.

Strangely, there were none.

She looked behind the cold glass and saw

alone

freezing under the awaking sun,

the last one standing.

A little, so little one.

So small, in fact, that he still had soft down all over his misty brown head.

She took as much care as she could of this precious creature,

untill the day he opened them.

Wide, silver wings, splashing in the light of the shy stars.

He flew.

Gently.

Going away into the silent night,

Raging against the wind and the dying of the light,

as she once metaphorically did some time ago.

As the birds stopped singing,

Helen smiled.