Running into Walls

One morning, for some unknown reason, one of the birds that had been living happily in one of the biggest trees by our house began some sort of macabre attack on the picture window nearest to his home. This particular bird was a bright red Cardinal, and charging at full speed, the bird would ram into the window – THWACK – with his (surprisingly large) red birdie head. Then back he would flap to his tree; gathering up whatever courage, battle plans, or whatever was necessary, before flying another kamikaze-like headlong trip into the thick glass of our picture window.

We tried everything to get that bird to stop attacking that window, but every 10 minutes or so, as long as there was daylight to see, that bird would fly headlong into that window. Day in, and day out – over and over again. After a little while of this action, the bird had made no progress other than to dramatically flatten the front of his little head, giving him a decidedly rough and tumble, almost cave-man-like appearance. You could hear the sound of his skull hitting the glass echo through the living room, dining room, kitchen and into the hall – nobody knew why or how the thing continued to do this day after day – until the fevered attacks suddenly stopped. We figured the bird had finally succumbed to his massive brain injuries, but could never find the bedraggled, flat-skulled little body to prove it. Still, it seemed impossible the bird was alive, and he was forgotten about over the winter.

THWACK. Next spring he was back, and was still going at that window as fast and furious as he ever had before, head still flattened from last summer’s furious assault. Something…what was it…something he thought was right on the other side of that glass day in and day out was driving him. Or maybe it was something he saw. Who knows? I still don’t. He was with us, THWACK, as loud and persistent as ever until the end of the summer. Then, again, he was gone. The next summer, I looked for his flattened-red head in our trees, and was almost disappointed when he didn’t show up to resume his fight. Then I forgot all about him and his war with whatever it was that was just beyond his reach, behind the picture-window glass in our living room.

Until, that is, I sit here staring at my computer monitor attempting to write again for the first time in years. Every time I think I have the words to say anything – THWACK – I hit the fucking glass, just like that little bird. Finally, I can understand his frantic attack: I can see the words, they’re right there in my own skull, I just can’t get through that fucking glass and physically get them, wrestle them into submission, anything – no matter what I seem to try. No matter how hard I hit, the only thing I get is a hollow sound, an aching head, and the knowledge that the most futile fights are usually the hardest fought by all of us hapless creatures.

Whether that bird gave up, or died, or found what he was looking for somewhere else had not mattered to me for years – and it’s way too late to ever find out now. There is nothing, no mark on the window, to say his assault ever really happened. Still, I remember the sound of bird bone hitting glass, and am amazed it sounds so much like the sound of my fingers typing.

by: Meghan Bainum – editor/contributor