This

by Luc Reid

I’m sitting in the center of a darkened room, but sunlight leaks through the dust at the base of long curtains that cover the far-flung windows. The building is being pummeled by a windstorm. My eyes are closed. I’m listening for birds, but all I can hear is the muffled, desperate surging of the wind and the creaking of the floor.

The birds are hiding: in the rafters, behind objects, under the floor. I don’t know why I’m in this place any more, I’ve been here so long, thinking of so little except for the birds. Since I don’t remember what I’m here for, I don’t remember what I’d do even if I heard one.

Then I remember: I’d capture it, and the rest would come to me.

I let go of the thought of capturing a bird, let it tear away and blow off like a drying sheet not well-pinned to its clothesline. I try to let the wind blow through my mind. I’m trying to let go of everything, to not worry about the things that I’ll need to do when the time comes, when I catch one bird–if I can catch it.

The floor feels cool and stiff under me. There’s a faint breeze from above, and I don’t know if it’s a ceiling fan or some remnant of the wind that has made its way inside.

Here and there around me are rolls of carpet, boxes of neatly-stacked books with cardboard covers, piles of old candle ends, letters half rotted away with time, a bed covered with dusty silk sheets, an old view camera, a music stand.

I forget the music stand first, wipe it away, then the bed, the letter … and the rest is already gone, melted away until my mind is pure and focused only on the moment. The birds won’t come near if they hear thoughts. I will be nothing for a little while.

This.

This.

This.

How will I know when to stop being nothing? Shh, you’ll know, I tell myself.

This.

This.

This.

I open my eyes, at peace, ready. In the darkness around me I hear the rustling of five hundred wings. Tiny, dark eyes glimmer with flecks of sunlight that have made the journey from the feet of the curtains. I am surrounded.