The Little Bird
THERE'S a jackfruit tree growing in front of my window. I am lying in bed, looking at it. It's been trimmed recently, I note with some sadness. It's not my jackfruit tree so I have no control over it. Its roots are in the neighbouring garden but, I assume, over the years it has leaned onto this side of the wall. The body of the tree is thus floating above what is technically our air space. I haven't known this tree long but I feel a kinship with it. For, my roots were planted somewhere else but my body is floating over someone else's air space.
And now the tree has been trimmed, shaved off its foliage. It looks bare, old scars exposed. There are little nubs of branches showing promise of new life but who is to know if they will ever grow into full bloom? I've trimmed my hair too. Close cropped to the scalp. So no one can ever yank me up by my braid. Coloured my prematurely white hair. When the ammonia burnt into my skin, I felt my wounds prickling again. And with it, my fallen pride. Here, near my front hairline is where he hit me one drunken night with his car keys. That numb lump at the back of my head is when he pushed me in a cold sober rage and I went flying into the dresser table. The psychiatrist says I must learn to process these moment so I can move on.
What is my jackfruit tree processing? Is it taking in fresh air, pure sunlight to thrive anew this coming season? But what of the four SUVs lined up in the driveway spewing out gagging streams of octane at it every morning, every night? Will it survive that? And the new high-rise 'exclusive' shopping mall at the back has all but cut off the early morning light. How will it survive if it can't see the promise of dawn?
I've come to another place where I do not have to fear daily taunts, nor fend off nightly blows. In order to make it a home though, I must relearn. How to speak so I can be heard. How to put my foot down and not lose ground. I have to unlearn too. How not to cower; but to uncurl. Not to tip-toe around his needs, but stride towards mine.
So much to do. Why then am I looking at this jackfruit tree weeping furious tears? Because…because there is a little sparrow hopping from branch to branch, ever so delicately. Pecking here. Fluffing its feathers there. Searching the optimal place to make a nest. Sitting up, I see that the giant tree must thrive not so much for itself but more for this little bird's sake.
The baby starts kicking in my stomach in response to my movement. Shifting ever so slightly, I try to make him or her more comfortable in my womb. Hush now baby. Settle down. You can't start on your own journey just yet. Let your mother find her own bearings first.
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