Beyond Words

There’s an owl at my window and I don’t care. I barely even look at it, though it’s large and white and entirely out of place on my street, miles away from the woods with more concrete than habitable trees. Through the corner of my eye, I see it balance precariously on the edge of the windowsill, swaying in the nighttime breeze. I really couldn’t care less if it fell two stories. At least it has wings. That’s more than most of us get.

Without looking at the damned bird I rest my hands on my abdomen. It’s slightly distended, as if I’d been filled up on takeout, or a two-month-old—no, I really can’t think about that.

My husband snores lightly next to me, the moon’s light reflects on his sweating forehead except where a shadow obstructs it. The outline of the owl looms.

I have a secret that I never even told my husband, but I can tell you oh wandering mind. When I was sixteen, I’d gotten pregnant for the first time. Even at that age I knew I’d wanted to be a mother, though I likely wasn’t ready for it, but still I’d wanted it. After two weeks of anxiety riddled conversations with my boyfriend, I decided we weren’t fit for the task. I’d terminated the pregnancy. Was my will really so frail? I was sixteen, scared and with a constant whisper in my ear of how this will ruin me, ruin us.

The owl makes a noise outside the window, like the bird version of purring, whatever that’s called. It almost sounds—happy.

Earlier today I’d been sitting in a chair that stuck to the backs of my thighs. My husband rubbed my back smiling, doting, the image of our wedding day, really. That’s when the doctor came in and told us. No heartbeat. It’s not until now, talking to—me, I guess, that I realize his hand had snapped back to cradle its owner. My husband had withdrawn that one tether of comfort to shield himself from the news. I was left with shock, which quickly turned to despair.

We drove home in silence.

A light tapping sounds at the window. It’s the bird with its sharp beak, gently trying to get my attention. I think it wants in. I can’t move though. My body is heavy, impossibly so, and this bed is a bed of bricks. I’m grateful the bird isn’t louder, or else it’d wake him up.

Oh fine. I drag myself to open the window. The cool breeze sends chills up my arms. Yes, I know this is a bird of prey, and yes, I know it’s massive and totally unsuited to the confines of a small room, but I really don’t care. It continues to sit on the ledge as I rush back to bed.

We stare at each other a while. It has large blue eyes that glisten like a sunrise over the sea. It’s completely still. Not even the wind could topple that kind of stillness. Creepy.

When I was a child, my younger brother and I were very close. Actually, we were inseparable when we weren’t at school. I treated him like an overgrown doll, dressing him up, brushing his hair, and setting up tea parties with our stuffed tiger and elephant. When we went to the park, I’d push him in a stroller. Eventually, he’d become so dependent on me that he refused to talk on his own, knowing I’d make his sentences for him. I guess it freaked our parents out, so that summer they sent him to a boarding school. He came back a different person. He didn’t need my toys or my words. That’s probably the first time I felt cut in two.

The bird lifts one leg. Then the other, until it’s standing fully inside the room. In a quick sweep of feathers, it’s perched on my lap. As I watch, not caring to move, it lowers its beak to my stomach, right where a part of me lies rotting. The owl stares at me, something like determination in it’s gaze as it opens its beak and bites down gently on the tight skin of my stomach.

Drowsiness overtakes me briefly before ripping me under a tidal wave of dreamless sleep.

I wake feeling more rested than I’d felt in weeks. The memory of yesterday falls back into me along with the crushing breathlessness of grief. For a moment I forgot. How could I? The weight on my stomach is overbearing. There really is something on me, though. Looking down, I see a mound of white feathers. The owl is dead.

My husband isn’t awake, so I don’t scream. I wouldn’t have anyway. I do get up, however, moving the bird gently as I do. Cradling it in an old white sheet like a swaddled babe, I take it out into the yard. Everything outside is dusted gold in the morning glow.

As I dig a small hole, I think of all the things that have cleaved me: my brother with his dimpled chin and high laugh, the first baby that fell to my weak will, and this one. I stop to rub my abdomen. The tightness in my throat becomes too much to bear. A sob escapes me. It’s guttural and raw like a wounded animal. I put the back of my hand to my mouth. The back slider door opens and my husband calls.

“Honey?” I don’t answer. “Darling, what are you doing out here? I was worried when I didn’t see you—what’s that?” He points to the bird.

I don’t answer, digging the hole ever deeper while sobbing. I can feel blisters forming on my palms, can smell the dirt of fresh earth and the dew of morning coating my lungs. My husband stares at me, probably thinking I’ve gone mad. Maybe I have. Something in me has broken and it’s all become so much louder, like somebody turned the lights up on color.

Instead of walking away, my husband lifts the owl gingerly from the ground. He places it in the grave I made. It looks very small in the ground, where it shouldn’t be. Beasts like this belong to the sky. Dark brown earth is already tarnishing its pure white feathers. My husband shovels dirt over it and when he’s finished, we stand side by side over the mound. I rest my head on his shoulder and we both weep. His hand rubs circles down my spine.

Later, our dog who loves to dig, undoes the grave. Brown clumps are strewn haphazardly around, what I’d come to think of as, a sacred place. Furiously, I scold him. When I go back in to fill the hole, I find the grave empty. There isn’t a single white feather remaining.

Sometimes, I think I imagined the white snowy owl, but when I rub the skin of my stomach, I can still feel a V-shaped scar where the bird left a memory. No, it left more than a memory, though words to convey what it truly left haven’t been invented yet. I should probably stick around and wait for them to come so I can thank it properly. Maybe if I keep the window open, it’ll know just the same.