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Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
Red-Winged Blackbirds were common in Georgia. They were so common in fact, I couldn’t fall asleep with the sounds of their chirping. When I was in second grade, I remember seeing one with broken wings and begging my mama to drive the two of us to the vet. He died that night after I had named him, Andrew.
Mama sighed sadly, “You could learn a lot about Andrew, Dicky.” And my little seven-year-old self frowned.
“What do you mean, mama?”
“You’ll know one day, Love-Bug. Let’s go make some cookies.”
All your life, you were
Only waiting for this moment to arise
Jack ain’t the first boyfriend I’ve ever had, but he certainly is the nicest. In seventh grade, there was this boy, Steven. He had hazel eyes and hair was dyed orange and he was one of Coach’s football players. He said I looked beautiful in ice skates. He kissed me one night, under the stars and the chickadees crying out in the background. His lips were chapped and they tasted like Gatorade and metallic, like the braces he wore.
Jack didn’t love me, he didn’t even like me. He just wanted to win a bet. They called me mean, old names and shoved me a supply closet the next day.
My mama told me a little too many fairytales. I wanted my own prince charming to sweep me off my feet. I wanted him to drool over my pies and littered me with affection and love. I wanted to be loved, I needed to be loved.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night,
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
When I took Jack to Georgia, he couldn’t stand the chirps the blackbirds made. He woke me up in the middle of the night to ask how I slept through the noise. “Some noises remind you of home, and this one of ‘em,” I whispered cuddling deeper into Jack.
Jack, he never understood, but I understand why. He probably never saw anyone in their hometown been told; “Is that your -ah- boyfriend? Oh, bless your heart, Eric,” in such a sickeningly sweet tone you never understood why I went home telling my mother we had some pies to send out.
I wanted him to try. To try and see through my eyes, what it was like to be hated by eight-fiver percent of your hometown and still come back. I wanted him to know it wasn’t because I’m a masochist. It was because in the south three things triumph all; family, religion, and the delicate art of southern aggression.
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free
When I moved up north, I was so excited. I’d be accepted! I could come out and I wouldn’t be sent “Bless your heart” baked goods. I could be out. On my terms, when I thought it was best. Not Steven, not anyone could change that for me.
It’s freeing, being out in a place that doesn’t care. It’s like never having to worry about being shoved into an alley, or a locker. I wonder if Andrew knew what it was like to be free? I wonder if he ever felt the wind between his wings as they glided across the warm sky.
Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly,
Into the light of the dark black night
I smile sadly. “This is it,” I whisper to myself, eyes filled with tears that no one will see me shed. “I just wanna be free,” I whisper.
———
((Jake Zimmermann’s Pov))
Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly,
Into the light of the dark black night
I have been known to do a lot of dumb things. But watching Bitty stand on that roof. Reader, he was just crying- no, he was gasping. And I was standing like a deer caught in the headlights. It’s by far one of the worst things I’ve ever done. “I just wanna be free,” he whispered like a mantra, ten, twenty, thirty times. “I just wanna be free,” each one coming out muffled through tears and gasping for air.
It was dark out, the blackbirds were chirping. They always chirp, but they’re quieter now like they’re giving me a chance to think. A chance to save the boy standing onto of a roof standing a little too close to the edge for someone who’s hysteric.
I walk slowly. I hope I’ll find the words to say something- anything, to him. I bearhug him. It’s a bad idea, he could throw both of us off, but at this point, that isn’t my concern. “It’s okay,” I whisper into his ear. He sobs. But he sobs into my chest and I hold him and I tell him he’ll be okay, not just for him but for me too. But love isn’t a cure-all. My love for him won’t save him from the hell in his head. That will rage on long after I’m okay.
———
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
I’m not sure how old Andrew was when I found him. Maybe he was too old to fly again. Maybe his bones told him he couldn’t fly. But, Honey, I ain’t Andrew. I’m Eric Richard Bittle. And sometimes that’s enough, right now that’s enough. I can be my own blackbird, someday.