Bird Glass Man Leave-taking

bluestone steps

By the time he was done moving it all, there was nothing left. He had removed every trace of him that ever was. Everything had been picked up and carried out of his little work space where, quite thoroughly, she had, prior to his arrival, collected every item of his that he had ever brought to her house. His blow torch, his gloves, his mask, his tank—the main tools of his trade where for years already he had blown dozens and dozens of flying glass birds—these had already been there awaiting him, downstairs in the grotto.

For years he had been perfecting the making of ornamental glass birds, wings and plumage of every color. That is what he did. And if a man can have a genius for one thing, and one thing alone, he had it for that, even if today such pretty objects of beauty are close to superfluous. At any rate, she had instructed him, per his request after their separation, to pick up his belongings before her return home from work in the afternoon.

Down there in his workspace, in a little corner room off to the northwest end of the basement, she had filled it neatly with all his belongings. Brown shopping bags were filled with clothes. Boots and shoes were placed in another. Books and musical wind-up toys were packed in boxes. All the little trial glass pieces he had made and given her, which once she had beheld as her own private and personal collection, were returned. Pretty little lame birds, you were so hard to see!

Before he closed the metal hatch doors that led down from the outside into the dark space that had been his own, where he had once thrived, he decorated her home with roses from floor to floor. He left her two notes: one on the kitchen table, and one on her bed. Dozens of red roses (and some white) lined the hallways, and traveled in pairs up the staircase. Two red blossoms lay crossed on her bed, beneath which he had slipped a little love note.

He told her that she was wrapped so tightly around his heart, he would do anything he could to be with her again, even though not a dot of him was left in his lover’s home. She knew he felt smashed and could do nothing to help him now. He flew off, little glass man, to the forest alone.

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