The memories drift past like the songbird that comes and goes from the feeder every morning. A street name comes into focus. A childhood bedroom window that peers out onto the oak tree that longs to be climbed. The old man watches as the bird pauses momentarily, ensuring no harm lurks. The bird’s head tilts. Every movement is minuscule yet so frequent that it gives off an air of unpredictability. It is here now, real, felt, but could be gone in an instant. Will be gone in an instant. Where it goes he no longer knows, nor tries to comprehend.
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Wesley Melville is a writer and business coach based in Mexico City.
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