Why does our new house always feel dark?
Some nights, the darkness steals my sleep,
seeping from the corners of my bedroom.
Is the house gloomy, or the people inside?
The backyard looks so light, so bright,
but it’s merely the snow’s reflection.
My mother has a new bird book,
and grandad’s old binoculars,
in a brown, leather case, shaped like them.
I like the raspberry velvet, lining the case,
but I never touch the binoculars.
They look so heavy, solemnly precious,
I can tell how my mother looks at them.
She reads about garden birds, the seeds they like,
in winter when food’s scarce and winds fierce.
Lately, obsessed with tending to the birds,
she’s “birdwatching” while we are at school.
Somehow, I know we need to leave her to do this.
Does she really just stare out at the birds all day?
After school, she looks out of the window,
while sharing whatever the birds did today;
I want to tell her about school, but I listen.
Really, her shitty birds don’t matter to me.
I am a child, I don’t care much for birds.
She smiles, looking out into the garden,
“Two cardinals…and the jay was back…,”
as the tears start flowing down her face.
I know they are never happy ones,
even though her smile remains.
Do the wild birds make her cry?
Does this house make her cry?
Or is it me – do I make her cry?
I pretend not to see her crying,
and she pretends she isn’t.
But I know she is.
I like when my Dad gets home, home feels more normal.
Though the house remains cloaked in this darkness,
as before.
