Fifteen years later I wonder what became of the bird
you carved from cherrywood—the first thing
anyone made for me, unless you count
a pasta noodle necklace from my sister.
I was in love with all the frustrations
we shared—the way you kept me alive
with challenges like “I can read faster,
read more than you.” Oh, we’ll see about that,
won’t we. I wonder—what if I hadn’t tossed
the bird in a bag for Goodwill,
next to the too-small prom shoes
that pinched my feet.
What would have been?
I thought I loved you, until I heard you say
“my mom made me” and “felt sorry for
the only girl in robotics—what was she thinking?”
The bird stopped being a real bird.
The dance floor became an ugly brown square
in the top room of a storefront.
We danced again once, afterward—
your eyes brown like the bird, like the floor,
but different hues. They were a closed door,
grain-dark and hollow, asking
how long you had to sway
in the wind of dancers.
I stepped on your toes. You flew off
to chitter with the other ninth-grade boys.
I was alone, and free.
To think—I learned words
like lathe and table saw for you.
I polished the bird before the bag.
I didn’t remember
that, until just now.
–
Hannah Cole Orsag is a writer and educator with roots in the Appalachian foothills and Toronto’s northern greenspaces. Her poems appear in Emerge Literary Journal, Dust Poetry Magazine, and Stanchion, among others. She also edits Heimat Review. Connect with her online @hannahorsag.