Recovery

by Anita Pappas-Raposa

I am haunted by a small bird that flew into my chimney. I came home from the hospital on a Thursday, a day early. Not because I’m so well; just couldn’t take the noise. Exiting the car, I see cheerful roofers flinging shingles into a large black net in the front and rear of the unit. There must be six of them banging above. My desire for rest vanishes. Looking heavenward, I curse my rotten luck, which has beset me for months after falling. My stapled neck is collared, immovable. Spinal fusion will allow me to move like my old self. I take pain meds and sleep more hours in a day than in twenty-five years.

Saturday morning is brisk and sunny as I watch my grandson and husband throw a football around. A paralyzed vocal cord renders a whisper of a voice. I’m trying to keep quiet; feeling restless and confined. I’m moody and bemoaning my missed “Girl’s Trip” to Siesta Key.

Suddenly, I hear a flutter behind the fireplace screen. “Oh God,” I shriek, “There’s a bird in the house.” I hobble outside and signal for help. Young Andrew responds with shrieks. “Yia Yia, the bird’s going to die!” Frightened, he retreats into the bathroom. “We’ll get help.” I look to my husband who begins to swear. He places towels in front of the screen.

The requisite calls begin: the police, the fire department, the Animal Control agency, even the Wildlife Association. Nobody works weekends, or it’s not “what they do.” A sweet girl at the animal shelter tells me to place a little water behind the screen or call a chimney sweep company. She adds, “They can live a few days; call on Monday.” We fortify the screen, but the bird has gone quiet. Unless we tap, all is still back there. We leave the bird alone.

On Sunday morning, I stand near the screen to check on my bird. My sister and husband visit, and she, an animal lover, wants its release. I keep thinking of the Maya Angelou poem “Caged Bird” and wonder if the silent bird feels trapped or is accepting its fate.

Monday morning, I call Animal Control. A pleasant young voice tells me that Animal Control can’t come inside. My hoarse pleading whisper weakens her position. She arrives in half an hour with a large blue fishnet in hand. She hears the frenzied flutter as she peeks behind the screen. When she guides the screen away, I stand back fearing the bird will attack its jailor. But it doesn’t. It eludes the net and flies straight toward a glass-paned door. She opens the door; the bird flies into the bursting blue sky. “Hmm,” she says quietly. “That’s unusual.” “What?” I ask. “It’s a dove.” I try to thank her with a contribution she refuses. “No, but I hope your voice comes back.” I reply, “I do too.”

I have cursory knowledge of doves, but I feel stronger and calmer now that the bird is free. Emily Dickinson was right, “Hope is the thing with feathers.”

""Anita Pappas-Raposa is currently working on a memoir about her coming of age and small-town life in Palmer, Massachusetts. She is a nonfiction writer and retired English teacher who attends The Museum School. An excerpt entitled “My Mother Wore Chanel” from an earlier memoir was published in the Palmer Journal in 2017.

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