Bluebirds

Mr. Bluebird

Amy wasn’t quite sure why she wrote in a diary. She lied in it, saying happy things and taking out the content that was not happy. Even so, she wrote in it. Andrew insisted on it.

Her father hit her again. And Andrew stepped in again. She watched as Andrew received black eyes and cuts on his face. Welts on the back. Groans. Amy cried, but Andrew carried her outside and they watched the sunset turn from red to orange while eating sweet, sweet peaches. She fell asleep in his arms.

Amy awoke in her bed. She turned over in amusement when she heard two birds. Chirp, chirp, said the bird outside her window. Chirp, chirp, responded that blue bird. She fell asleep to their lullabies and songs.

Andrew was out again. He worked two jobs to feed her and himself. And their father. Amy continued to write in her diary. She talked of her school saying this girl complimented that about Amy and that girl complimented this about Amy. It was dull in all honesty.

Andrew was out and her father gathered up the belt. She locked herself in her room, but what did it matter? Her father had the keys anyway. Criiiik, creaked the door. Amy bundled herself up under the blankets as the the whip whistled in the air. Her father whistled along, tunelessly. It smelled of beer.

Andrew came back, finally. Amy heard the yelling happen. Why do they do this? thought Amy. Andrew’s only seventeen. And Amy would turn ten in one week. Criiiik, went that door. Andrew entered her room and hugged Amy. She sobbed into his shoulder like she did every time. He fed her some peaches through his smile. It peeked through the cuts and wounds.

He sent her away on her birthday. “Why?” she cried. “Andrew!” she screamed when her ‘godmother’ took her away. Through her bawling and gasping she saw a small flash of blue. She jumped out of the carriage and landed not-so-gracefully. Crip, crip, went the bluebird. Both wings were twisted badly. Amy picked the little thing up carefully and carried him back to the carriage. “Come back, Mr. Bluebird,” she whispered.

Clank, clank, the wheels cackled. Trich, trich, her quill pen screeched. Amy wrote and wrote in the carriage; it was almost the only thing she did besides eat and sleep. She wrote and wrote letters to her brother. Her brother now trapped by their father. Father with power.

She cared for the bluebird also. Her godmother tried to talk to Amy, but Amy was too engrossed in her writing and talking to the bluebird. She gave up.

Amy stopped writing in her diary about the “good stuff.” She wrote about her father and how he treated Andrew and herself no better than the slaves. She wrote about the beatings and she told about her being sent away. She wrote about their mother’s death. She kept writing letters for Andrew. She would send her letters immediately when they arrived wherever they were arriving.

The bluebird heals quickly, Amy found and that he would be flying in only weeks.

They arrived after four weeks riding in carriage and steamboat. She gave her letters to the postman. He asked for a dollar. She hopped back to her godmother and asked for a dollar. Her godmother shook her by the shoulders. “One dollar?!” She sighed after seeing her little goddaughter’s eyes. Amy trotted back and gave the postman a dollar. He said it would get there in a month or two. Two months?! That would take too much time! Amy started bawling and her godmother pulled her away and told Amy that it would take a while to get there. It had to go through people with horses, and other people, and it had to go across all the Confederate cities. She bawled and asked for peaches. She got some, but they were not sweet like Andrews.

Why do the days go by so slowly, Amy wondered. Then she thought of Andrew.

A month had finally passed. After another week passed Amy cried and asked her godmother why there weren’t any letters for her. Her godmother explained to her once again.

Amy began to stay in her room and not go anywhere at all. She played with the bluebird. His wounds healed but his wings stuck to his sides and he did not want to fly. She urged him to fly.

He flew, finally! Small, shuddering, he flew around and around her room and she cried joyful tears.

She told the bird to go. He would not go. “Go, go, Mr. Bluebird.” He shook his little feathers as if saying no. She sang for him.

“And so here we go bluebird,

gather your strength and rise up.

Oh, let him go bluebird.

Oh, let him go bluebird.

Oh, let him go bluebird.

Ready to fly,

You and I,

Here we go.

Here we go.

Here we go...”

He was gone the next day. She left the window open, and he was gone, the only thing left of him a blue feather; and she was happy for him. He would find another birdy and they would love each other.

Her godmother found her in her room staring out the window. She handed Amy something, and she cried. In rocky letters, her brother’s signature was written at the bottom of a paper. She cried, and she sang the song, all parts of it, happy and sad.

 

 

---

A/N 

Well, it's like, a super short story, but it is called a short story for a reason, right...? :)