Every Tuesday afternoon, she feeds the birds. Her routine is the same, every week. I am in place just a few minutes after noon, so I can watch her crest the hill and coast the last few feet on her battered old racing bicycle. She lays it on the grass like a holy object and sits beside it, resting against the ground like she can feel the weight of the sky on her shoulders. She runs a hand through the grass four times, slowly and deliberately for three and then quickly for the fourth, and then crosses her legs under her: first the left, then the right, with the solemnity of ritual. She turns her head minutely to the left, and grips her left arm with her right hand, cradling it in a gesture that could be coy or meant to comfort, and stares at her side as if there is something to see other than the park stretching out in empty fields. She sits like that, frozen, for almost a full five minutes, though not with the precision of a stopwatch, and then she takes her left hand, reaches across to her bicycle, and pulls seeds out of her bag. The birds, trained, are already beginning to gather. She sprinkles the seeds as close to her feet as she can get and still encourage the birds to eat: this is the only changing part of her routine. Every week, the birds creep closer by degrees. I am waiting for the day when the birds reach her skin, tiny pecks lifting grains and leaving tender red marks on her thighs and knees, until she lies back on the grass and lets the birds consume her. I think that day is coming, and I wonder if she is waiting for it too.
Image by: April Milne