Door Knocker

The door knocker is a small girl holding a puppy. Admire the creativity. Who would make such a door knocker? Who would purchase one?

The Bird would. The Bird does everything in such a way that nobody else can believe what they’ve done when they see what it is. Door knockers. The way The Bird eats an everything bagel. The way The Bird drives a garbage truck. Each action shines a light on the action or the object The Bird is engaging with, and brings forth new insight.

Knock on the door. The Bird answers. You begin your apology. The Bird closes the door. Closes or slams? The shutting doesn’t seem hard, but you can’t help but notice the pain in the eyes of The Bird. They did not squawk at you, but they were close to a squawk. Remind yourself that you were expecting this. There was no reason to believe an apology would be accepted the first time. You will return tomorrow. You do return tomorrow.

Tomorrow is now today. You are here. You will try again. The little girl holds the puppy. You grab the little girl’s shoes and knock robustly. Yesterday, your knock was hesitant. You had a sense of what was coming. You knew you were going to be rejected. Today you will be steered by hope, not fear. Optimism, not pragmatism. Today you will be forgiven.

The Bird opens the door. You get out a few more words than you got out yesterday, but today, the door is slammed. It is not closed. There’s no denying it. The pain in the eyes is still there, but there is no sign of an oncoming squawk. The Bird does not even ruffle its feathers. Today you are surprised, but not surprised. Hope must be adjusted. You must have days of hope. Weeks, even. You will be forgiven. You must be consistent. You will come back tomorrow.

Tomorrow is now today. Today turns into a year ago. It doesn’t take long. Each day the door is opened, and that is why you continue to return. No words are spoken. The Bird can speak, you know it can. You’ve heard it say “Douglas Fairbanks.” You’ve listened as it sang “Moon River.” You’ve carried on a conversation with it back when you two had conversations. The last time you talked, you confessed your betrayal. You told it that you had gone to see the The Nest. You had sat among The Eggs. You sat on one, then another. None cracked, but you had crossed a line. Many lines. The Bird listened, cawed a bit under its breath, and then asked you to leave.

You knew it would take time before you were forgiven. You gave it a year. Then another. It was five years before you showed up at the house of The Bird. You had gotten the address from a mutual friend.

“I don’t think you should bother,” the mutual friend advised, “The Bird is still very hurt by the whole situation. You saw the twigs in The Nest. You saw the sticks.”

“I’ve forgotten it all,” you lied, “Could you tell The Bird that I’ve forgotten--”

“I’d rather not get involved.”

You don’t blame them. How could you? They were still in The Bird’s inner circle. They were still invited over for Americanos on Thursdays. They were still taken on a yearly camping trip where The Bird would sit them around a fire and sing “Moon River” and reenact one or two films featuring Doulgas Fairbanks. It was not easy to become a part of The Bird’s life. Once you were in, you fought hard to stay in. You let temptation get the better of you. You chose to see The Nest.

The day you climbed up to it, you knew you were jeopardizing your friendship with The Bird. Each slice of bark that cut into your hands seemed to be a warning. Nothing in The Nest would be worth your transgression. You knew that. You knew that and you kept climbing. When you pulled yourself over the side, and landed on your back, the breath thrust from you, your first sensation was regret. People write poems about regret where it’s heavy and somber. Your regret was sensual. You tried to get air into your lungs as the regret cradled your head. It invited you to explore. It told you that The Bird was trying to be God. It was trying to prevent you from knowing the scope of the world. You believed regret, because you had no other choice. You were already sitting on an Egg.

A decade has passed since then. You no longer have a job. Your job is Forgiveness. Your job is to get something out of The Bird. A phrase. An acknowledgement. Now, when you delicately hold the little girl’s shoes and knock, the knocks are defeated. You can’t help it. Hope has decomposed. Your fingers are moss. Your palms are mold. The Bird opens the door. At times, you’re able to say seven words. Seven is the record. You dream of eight. You tell yourself the eighth word will do it. It will bring about the Great Forgiveness. You have never gotten to eight. Seven is generous, but you won’t admit that to yourself. Seven is, perhaps, when The Bird is simply too tired to close the door quickly.

For The Bird is aging. It is undeniable. Birds do not live forever. You entertain the thought of The Bird dying before it forgives you. This thought acts like a termite in the cedar parts of your brain. You ask your mutual friend how The Bird’s health is. They say--

“I’ve told you before, I don’t wish to talk about The Bird.”

Then--

“But between you and me, they don’t have much time left.”

Go to the house more than once a day. Go twice a day. Three times a day. Plant yourself on the doorstep of The Bird. Dare it to call the authorities. A Lizard walks by, but says nothing. Let the Lizard judge you. What does the Lizard know about friendship? Lizards eat their friends. Everybody knows that. A Lizard could never appreciate what it means to be friends with The Bird.

Late at night, after all the lights in The Bird’s house have been turned off, knock on the door. The little girl’s shoes have had the silver rubbed off them due to excessive knocking. Knock louder. Wake up The Bird. Wake up The Bird if that’s what it takes. Howl. Howl like a Coyote. Howl like a Coyote that needs a kill. Perhaps Forgiveness isn’t soft. Perhaps it’s hard. Perhaps it’s violent. Perhaps it feels like sliding a knife down a spine. Never stabbing, but the threat--

The threat is there.

Forgive me.

Forgive me.

Howl it. Howl for Forgiveness.

A light comes on in one of the upstairs rooms. It might be a bedroom. It has to be a bedroom. A shadow appears in the window. Wings. Those are wings. Those are the wings of The Bird. Listen to the window opening. Listen and you might hear “Moon River.” Listen and you might hear all about the dream maker and the heartbreaker. Listen and you might get your Forgiveness.

Instead, something hits you. Something wet strikes your shoulders and the top of your head. The window closes. The light goes out.

You got your answer.

What else did you expect?

Look at the little girl holding the puppy. She loves that puppy so much. Could that puppy ever hurt her? How bad would the puppy have to hurt her for her to put it down and never pick it back up?