The day that my landlord told me he was putting my house on the market was the day the baby bird fell from its nest.
The day my house stopped feeling like home.
I woke up feeling good, even though I'd walked around for days with a cloud over my head. Alex, my landlord, was considering putting the house up for sale. He'd had a realtor walk through it already, but he hadn't decided what he wanted to do. I was optimistic he wouldn't choose to sell. After all, how could such a terrible thing happen to me? Life was good. Wasn't it?
I rolled over and checked my phone. "Hey Elaine, give me a call when you wake up," was the text waiting for me. Alex. I allowed myself a few more minutes to fully wake up before calling him. I wanted to completely comprehend the conversation we were about to have, though I was certain he wanted to tell me he had opted not to put the house on the market at this point in time. He answered after a few rings, and we engaged in small talk until he was able to work his way up to the reason for the call: he was putting the house on the market.
My heart rocketed into my throat. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He began to tell me that if (and it was a big "if,) the house sold, he would make sure I had an additional thirty days to vacate, on top of the amount of time it would take to close. He didn't, after all, want to screw me over and leave me scrambling to find a new place to live. We covered a few more details, and ended the call. I sat in my bed, head reeling, until I was able to get up and get on with my day.
I had the day off, and I really didn't want to be home alone. I grabbed some laundry and went to load up my car to drive to my mom's for the afternoon.
I opened the back door, that leads to my patio, and saw it. At first, I wasn't sure what I was seeing... until I got closer. It was a baby bird. Its head was bigger than the rest of its body; its purple lids on its eyes not yet open. A pile of pink rubber with little tiny feathers where its wings would grow, struggling to flip itself back over. It had fallen from directly above, where a sparrow had been building an impressive nest for weeks in the gutter of the roof that covers my patio. Nearby, on a fence post, its mother sat eyeing me.
I couldn't touch it. Its mother wouldn't want anything to do with it. But I couldn't just leave it, either-- it's neck was twisted, and it was struggling to get turned over. Fighting to live. I looked around for something, anything, to help me flip it over without actually touching it. Finally, I found a stone. I used an untouched edge to turn the baby right side up. To straighten its neck. To hopefully save its life.
I left, praying its mother would take it back.
When I got home later that night, the baby was still on the patio. Still alive. Still struggling. Its breathing was getting more and more shallow, and I knew it wouldn't make it through the night. I stood there talking to it. The more I talked, the more it moved around. It liked the sound of my voice. I felt helpless. I couldn't take it in; it wouldn't last. But if I left it outside, a cat or another animal would likely make a meal of it. I talked to it until I couldn't take it anymore, apologizing over and over for not being able to save it.
I couldn't even save myself from possibly being ripped from my own home.
Painfully aware of how alike the baby bird and I were, I went inside and cried myself to sleep. I couldn't save the bird, and I couldn't save myself. I spent days lost. Not knowing what to do next. I couldn't even bring myself to remove the remains of the dead bird from my patio. It stayed there until my lawn was mowed the next time, and it was blown off of the concrete, with the grass clippings after the mowing.
I began to panic. I took a mini-vacation, some time to clear my head. I gave myself an opportunity to be happy for the first time in months. I came back to a For Sale sign in my yard. I sat in my car in the driveway, crying, for a good five minutes before I forced myself to get out and unpack my car. To head into the house that no longer felt like home to me. To try to put my life back together, as best I knew how... but running away is what I know best.
I am still trying to hold my life together, while allowing myself a bit of happiness each week. Most people don't understand why I chose to work 12 hours on one of my days off each week, two hours away. But the truth is, it's who I am. I need to know-- to feel-- that I am still me. I am still capable of doing something, anything, to make me feel alive. I can still do things, and do them well. To know that I am valued. To have, and be, something I haven't in a very long time.
Simply put, I chose my happiness over the life that haunts me here. This life of merely existing isn't me. Who cares if the house I live in sells? It's not the end of the world. It's not the end of my life. There is so much more out there for me than this house.
The baby bird never had the opportunity to spread its wings and fly; never felt the freedom that comes with it. But that doesn't mean that I can't take the opportunity for myself.
The day my landlord told me he was putting my house on the market was the day the baby bird fell from its nest.
The day my house stopped feeling like home.
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