my favorite neighbor

I can see why he chose to live in the pear tree. The intricate veins of its leaves, the way the sun shines through them to warm your body as you rest on a branch, the sweet taste of its speckled fruit, the deep roots that promise security and stability. It’s the most beautiful spot in the neighborhood.

On our street, all the houses look the same. They have wood thatched roofs and painted walls that have spidery cracks in dry season and a parasitic moisture when it rains, when mud and water alike cling to the building’s bones and suffocate us. The rains paint in broad strokes on the unpaved road too, and when they do, we usually get to stay home from school.

Last rainy spell, I fell ill. First came the fever and then the dizziness—I couldn’t eat and couldn’t walk. My family was convinced I was going to die. They called the doctor, the priest, my grandma. I remained uncured, unsaved, and unhopeful. But by the time sickness had possessed me a week, their fears of death were forgotten and replaced with a conviction that I was too stubborn for fever to take me. My parents went back to work and left me alone with just the window and the water in the walls.

+++

That’s when I saw him for the first time. I watched as he left early for the pear tree and came back often, carrying materials that seemed to weigh more than he did. He left with a song, his voice carrying like wind through the neighborhood. In a good mood, and unashamed. I wanted to know everything about him, my favorite neighbor.

Though we had not yet spoken, I decide that he is ambitious, secure, and modest. He recognizes the limits imposed by his small body, which looks nothing like my young one. It’s contorted in different ways and worn from years of work and loneliness. Mine, though weak, is elongated and flexible. He is calculating yet creative, and there’s something peaceful about him. Just looking out the window I feel complete.

I begin to think about him always. As my parents argue, I hum the beautiful melodies he sings. When my brother complains about doing the chores alone because I can’t help, I think about how he works alone, even in the rain, without ever seeming to tire. And most of all, when I look around our house, I envy his, in the beautiful pear tree.

Days go by without school and without friends, and still I do not feel lonely. From beneath the covers of the bed, I go with him to choose the best wood for the treehouse. I picture the branches and the walls merging together, the leaves weaving a tiled roof. I wonder what his furniture will look like, if he’ll live there alone, if he’ll be able to see me through his window. I wonder if he thinks about me at all.

On the first day of September, I wake up to see him at our windowsill. He’s come to visit me, I think. My mom, preparing to leave for work, indifferent to his presence, suddenly squeezes my cheeks, kisses my forehead, and grins. "The fever is gone!" She dances around the bed and runs outside to spread the long-awaited news. When I turn back to the window, he is still there. Finally, I can look at his face, nod, smile, talk to him. His eyes glow brighter than any others I have looked into, and he is beautiful. But before I can say anything, he gently bows his head, spreads his blue wings, turns around, and flies away.