When every day is the same,
the roads, familiar, always seem to have the same number of cars; variations of which are only dependent upon the time of day. Perhaps even the people in the cars are the same as before, but we never stop to find out who we are. The sky, like a rolled-down backdrop for the scene, changes, but gets broken down into concrete categories: “sunny,” “cloudy.” But, does anyone really notice that some days the sky is a tremulous blue grey, and some days it is dazzling with large white clouds, and some days it is dark as coal, and other days it’s almost white? The drive is the same. All the bumps and grooves are more or less familiar, but only to that deep, sleepy part of my mind, which seems to drive by feel, rather than sight, when I’m still sleepy with a coffee in my hand. The same people surround me, more or less, but sometimes they wear different clothes. A blur of children run, laugh, jump, arrange toys and cut paper. Back into the car: music on the radio, automatic pilot guides us home. The lunches are like other lunches. The sandwiches are the same. Chocolate syrup is stirred into cold milk. The day will move along. Push, pull, wait, go, eat, drink, think, sleep.
And then today, on a Tuesday, a sudden fluttering noise in the car, as we’re adjusting belts, and I say; “what is that?” when it can only be one thing: a bird. A bird has flown into the car, and for one mili-moment it is caught, and in panic, just as I am in panic. Then it pauses on the door frame and we can see one another. I can only imagine how scared it must be.
Gently, I say; “go on…” And then it is gone.