homing
On my way home from work one sunny morning, there was an injured pigeon in the middle of Ashland Avenue. It was tumbling over itself, unable to stand, its broken leg thrust into the air. I drove past, but glanced once more into my rearview only to see another car veer into the stranded bird.
I cried the rest of the way home. I cried up the steps of my building. I cried into my instant oatmeal, and in the shower. I cried in bed while I did a Tuesday crossword to fall asleep. I cried when I woke up that afternoon. I cried while I scooped the coffee grounds, and while I loaded the dishwasher.
Was I crying for the bird, or was I crying for myself, because I needed someone, because even if I could do everything on my own I didn’t want to, and I missed him, I missed him more than I would ever admit?
But then the tears did stop, and I went back to work again that night.
After all, it was only a pigeon.