He was awake anyway, no stranger to three a.m. sleeplessness, so the knock on his door didn’t upset him. Later, he didn’t really recall finding the shoebox with four tiny yellow chicks snuggled in it, the box was just in his hands, four tiny lives, in his hands.
But he was so tired. Almost deliriously tired.
With no idea what to do, no idea what he was doing, he constructed a small compound on his bedside table. He turned the shoebox on its side to make one wall and a snug place for the chicks to hide in, with a soft hand towel to keep them warm. The lid of the box, a lamp base and the bedroom wall completed the stockade. He wanted the chicks to be safe, but he also needed to sleep. He gave them food and water, bread soaked in milk, he didn’t know why, they seemed to like it. And they seemed to like him. They chirped quietly and looked up at him with complete trust.
He would have liked them too, all fluffy and cute and wonderful, but he was so, so tired.
They seemed to like the true crime podcast he played quietly to help him get to sleep. They left the warm shelter of the shoebox and gathered around the phone, happily muttering back to the tales of murder and bloodshed, as, for the first time in a week, their pure, innocent voices lulled him into peaceful, generous sleep.
When he awoke the chicks were gone. The shoebox was gone. No sign of them remained.
It didn’t make sense.
He rose, made coffee, ventured out onto his balcony to sit in the sun. In his heart he hoped those baby chicks were happy, being kind to each other, eating well and living loving and peaceful lives, even if they weren’t real.
Coming back inside he noticed, then brushed away, one tiny yellow feather, shrugged, shrugged again, then headed for the shower to begin a new day.
Parkstreet
2 comments:
Sweet
Thank you.
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