Letters Between Sundays

The freedom to feel the wind beneath your wings, the ability to fly high in the sky in daylight. Being the early bird who goes looking for worms in the wet soil after a night of storming, chirping in the willow tree, ruffling my beautiful blue feathers, watching the day turn into night.

The peace in your mind when knowing you can fly at any time and navigate anywhere you go. No control, no cage, no worry. Just freedom.

Building a nest in the willow tree with sticks and debris, building an environment where I can be a bird of my own. I wasn’t a perfect bird—I had wounds that were bleeding, but they were controlled. I lived this long with bullet holes in my wings, and yet I was the loudest bird in the willow tree, chirping every morning and licking my wounds.

The night of the storm, my feathers were drenched with the droplets of the sky. Not being able to fly back to the willow tree, stopping at an unknown destination. Being lost, hearing thunder, and still having hope I’ll make it back home to the willow tree.

The unfamiliar feeling of not knowing the other birds, not knowing what lives in this tree. Finding a branch to hold onto, I closed my eyes, imagining the path I’ll take when flying in the sky—the wind beneath my wings, the feeling of freedom.

The morning came, and the sky was still grey. The wind blowing in all directions and the rain falling heavy around me.

Looking inside the tree, all the other birds had birds of their own, cuddling into each other’s necks, making sure they were okay. The feeling of not having someone next to you when there are storms.

Finding a beautiful golden cage. The detail on the door shimmered when the sun rays hit it. The cage brought comfort from the thunder, protecting me at every cost.

Days went on, and the door of the cage stayed open. The storm passed, and I chirped again. My wounds began to heal in the cage, not knowing I was allergic to gold.

Burning my feathers, watching them wither away. Thinking my color is ugly, so maybe I could lose some off my wings.

The other birds watching me with their divisive eyes, chirping to each other, watching me stay in the cage more every day.

Months went on. Being naive about the cage taking my vocal cords, making the cage my identity, flying less and less every day.

The intense anxiety shivering down my spine when even thinking about flying, about freedom.

Not noticing when the door closed on the cage, being blinded by the comfort I once thought was safety, but was confinement.

Thinking if I leave the cage, I’ll get caught in another storm, not being able to fly again if lightning struck my wings. Never making it back to the willow tree. Never feeling freedom again.

The little chirps I still had in me vibrated the bars, electrocuting my feet, teaching me I can’t chirp or I’ll get hurt.

Pacing back and forth in the cage made it wobble, almost falling out of the tree. So I stopped pacing, fearing I’d get hurt if I hit the ground.

Being bare—no feathers, no chirps, no movement.

All I have to do is open the detailed door on the cage and leave this tree that I made my home.

And somewhere along the way,
I stayed long enough to believe I belonged here…
not in the willow tree. No freedom.