Perched On A Windowsill

“I am going to be candid with you Theo, it isn’t good,” the doctor said, bracing himself for the news he was about to deliver. “The results here indicate advanced cancer in your colon, and it appears to have spread rapidly throughout your body. I am very sorry.” Woefully shocked, Theo stuttered back, “Wh— what exactly are you saying to me doc? I don’t understand.” Leaning in closer, grabbing Theo gently by the shoulder, he replied, “You’re dying Theo. And looking at these levels, I’d say you only have about five weeks.” In quiet desperation, Theo sank deeply into his chair. And while the doctor carried on about potential remedies and options, Theo nodded along slowly, pretending to listen. But his attention had surely been stolen by the looming thought, “Five weeks… Five weeks… Five weeks…” He couldn’t shake it. When the appointment ended, and all of the forgotten words had been said, Theo shook his doctor’s hand and left the office, trudging right past reception. He couldn’t see the point in scheduling a follow-up. He was a dead man.

Walking to his car felt like an eternity. His heart and mind were racing like they never had before. So fast, in fact, that he thought they might have stopped entirely. He felt numb. Everything around him was muffled. Except for the sound of a bird singing somewhere off in the distance. But he didn’t stop to listen. All he could think was, “Five Weeks,” as he drove off to buy some liquor. He hadn’t drunk in years. He had given up his bottled mistress sometime after his third divorce, thinking that maybe it was the cause. Finally understanding how his lust for cheap whiskey had separated him from everything he had ever loved. But today he could no longer resist her. He figured they should waste away together, like they always had. He bought nine or ten bottles of something strong so that he would feel the burn. There was no more slowing down. He was a dead man.

By the time he arrived back to his small house near the outskirts of town, he was a third of the way through his first bottle. “Why wait?” he thought. “Why take a breath or drive home safely?” He couldn’t gather it. Instead, he stumbled out of his car and up the stairs, nearly breaking the railing as he fell by. After barely making it to his couch, he passed out, leaving his front door completely open. He was too oblivious to care, too drunk to be aware, and he slept all night that way. When he awoke in the morning, his head was splitting and his stomach ached worse than ever before. But that didn’t stop him from wanting to pour another glass. Grunting and groaning he stood up from his couch, only then noticing his blundering mistake from the day before. He shuffled by slowly, gripping his forehead in hopes of alleviating the pain, and shut the door while he headed for the cupboard. When he turned the corner to the kitchen he shrieked, “AHH, WHAT THE F—,” as a startled and frantic bluebird flew right past his head. “The damn door,” he thought angrily to himself as he rushed back to open it once again. “Get out of here you little bastard!” he screamed. Expletive after expletive was hurled at this poor, curious creature. He threw his shoes, pillows, and eventually himself at the bird in his attempts to drive it out, until he was successful. Fortunately, the bird wasn’t harmed in the scuffle. Theo’s aim wasn’t very good, but he sure did manage to scare it. Finally, pouring his first drink of the day, the thought of that bird’s fear brought an odd smile to the old man’s face. He wasn’t the only one who was afraid to die.

That smile turned bitter again somewhere into his third glass, remembering that it was only him who was actually dying. The peculiar joy he had found turned into jealousy as he thought of everything he would give to trade places. Everything he would give to try again. For a moment he grew somber, almost shedding a tear as he downed yet another glass. But like the joy that had turned to jealousy, his heart soon sparked with rage. What had he been living for? Thinking back, he had spent too much time at work, dreaming of one day retiring. Hoping to one day find his purpose, but here he was still lost and almost out of time. Five weeks. He called his boss and quit with no explanation. He was never close to anyone there, so why bother with their pity? He’d rather be alone. He had grown comfortable by himself. Every woman he had ever loved had left him, and every “friend” treated him the same. He had always figured that he might die alone, but had hoped it’d be from old age. He was barely sixty-two. He assumed he had more time, but it seemed he guessed wrong. He was a dead man.

The bitter silence was quickly becoming too much for him to bear. He poured another drink and found himself in front of his television. A fifty-inch flat screen, still in the box. Theo had bought it nearly a year before. He spent months saving up enough money, but never actually got around to setting it up. A tale akin to most of the dreams that he never lived up to. “There isn’t much hope for those anymore,” he figured, “But I’ll be damned if I never enjoy my flat screen.” He tore into the box, and set it up properly in the center of his den. It filled the room, covering up half of the only window, but he didn’t care. The curtains were drawn shut anyway. When he turned it on, the image quality was perfect, the sound immaculate. It was everything that he hoped it would be. He finally had it! Sadly though, it was the only thing that he had left.

He plugged himself in, only leaving the house one final time to stock up on food and a few more bottles of cheap whiskey. He didn’t care anymore. There was no one to impress. He wanted to waste away, passively watching whatever came across the screen. Taking in anything that would distract him from his inevitable demise. He kept his curtains closed in order to lose track of time so he wouldn’t know how many days were left. He never felt any sense of denial regarding his fate, but he was absolutely trying to forget. He was a dead man.

His days began to blur together, exactly as he had hoped. His only gauge of time became his stomach pains, that grew alongside the pile of empty bottles lying next to him. Guessing from that pile, about three or four weeks had gone by. The movies and shows weren’t soothing him anymore and quickly became background noise that only agitated him further. Memories came rushing in. Memories of everything in his life that had gone wrong. Every off-word and misstep played over and over. He drank more to try and drown them out, but they droned on, only angering him further with every breath he took. His fury found its peak when a commercial played, advertising a beach resort in the Bahamas. He had always wanted to go but never did, and his aching gut reminded him that he never would. He lost it, throwing his glass against the screen, and following that by hurling his television across the room. He couldn’t bear to see it anymore. He couldn’t stand to be reminded of a world that he will never enjoy. He fell to his knees and wept, sobbing in a way that he only had twice before. His walls had been up since suffering through his first divorce, and were reinforced the night his mother passed away with no goodbye. He never wanted to feel that way again. He wouldn’t allow it. But he didn’t have the strength left in him to hold back the tears anymore. He didn’t have a heart left to mask with anger. He was a dead man.

As his tears ran dry and his wallows began to wane, he heard chirping and a feeling of warmth came across his face. The curtains had been jarred slightly by his outburst, and for the first time in weeks the sunlight graced his eyes. He paused for a moment, suspended in that beam of light, and only then realized that it was autumn. He was shocked to see that the season had changed without him noticing, and was struck by the vibrant color of the leaves. He slammed the curtains shut, as they reminded him of how little time he had left, and went to pour another glass.

When the morning broke, he was sorry to see that the shattered television wasn’t a dream or an imagination from the day before. He had destroyed his last vestige of entertainment. “What am I supposed to do now?” he thought to himself while looking about the room. His radio had been dead for years, and he hated all of the books on his shelf. “Once again, I screwed myself,” he thought. “Fitting,” he blurted out as he slumped onto his couch in self pity. The misery in his stomach had grown stronger, and he felt too weak to go anywhere. He was alone, with nothing and no one. Once again he began to cry. This time, though, he was sober. He had been numbing himself for weeks, but in this moment he was feeling everything, and it was almost too much to bear. However, his anguish wasn’t stemming from thoughts of dying. He was wrought because he had never lived, or at least had barely tried to in decades. While barely hanging on he sat quietly, hoping Heaven would speak its grace. But he didn’t hear a thing… until that bluebird started chirping again.

Hunched over, he shuffled to the window, for what seemed like the first time in his life and pulled the curtains open. He had honestly forgotten how beautiful his property was in the fall. He owned six acres, that sat on top of a slight hill. The way the sun rose above the Sycamores was astonishing. He was awestruck, and truly amazed that he had forgotten. Tears flooded his eyes, but yet he smiled and pulled up a chair to keep on listening. There weren’t too many birds left this late in the season, but the few remaining sang along to the sounds of the leaves rustling in the wind. He couldn’t recall the last time he had simply sat and listened. He gazed out the window for hours, leaving it open to welcome the breeze. Eventually a storm rolled in and rained throughout the night, so the window closed and drinks were poured, but he slept better that night than he had in weeks.

The following morning he ventured outside. The cool, fresh air almost stung when it hit his lungs, but he felt more refreshed than he had in a long time. It took most of his energy, but he dragged a chair and side table out into the yard to watch the sunrise. Once again, he was enamored by the beauty of the autumn sun. His world, that had been filled with darkness, was now a radiant orange and red. He couldn’t put words to the feelings that came over him.

His thoughts were once again a muffled mess. But there was a sense of calmness brewing. When the day awoke around him, the birds began chirping again. He sipped his drink more slowly, wondering if the chirping from the day before had somehow been an answer to his prayer. Perhaps somehow he was supposed to see this. Either way, he was grateful.

The next day was much the same. Although his thoughts continued to torment him, he spent most of his time in silence. He wasn’t sure what he was listening for, but he figured he should finally give himself the chance to hear it. But he still had one final bottle left to finish. So he cracked the seal and sat there quietly.

The leaves had just recently begun to fall, and he watched them flutter down gracefully. A few days prior the sight of this surely would have sent him spiraling, but today it left him pondering the wonder of a cycle’s end. He had never paid it much mind before, but sitting there in front of him was a glowing example. Before he could fully figure its value, he was distracted by movement out of the corner of his eye. There, exploring the side yard, was he very same bluebird that had entered his home some time before. “Sorry about the other day, you startled me is all,” he said to the bird, somewhat sarcastically. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he followed with, knowing that he wasn’t telling the whole truth. But what did it matter, he figured. He was talking to a bird.

“I’m a dead man, you know?” he said a little louder, as if hoping for a response. “I always knew it would happen, but maybe I never really believed it.” Pausing for a moment and sinking into his chair, he cried, “And I… I wasted it.” While grabbing for his drink, the bluebird was startled by the clinking of the glass and flew away. He swigged it back anyway, making him cough and groan in pain so badly that he folded over in his seat. “I can’t even keep the birds next to me,” he thought to himself, recovering as much he could. Once again he sat quietly, waiting out his time.

The bluebird returned about ten minutes later, a little more hesitant than before. Theo figured he should leave it alone. He had done enough to it, he thought. But after some time the bird grew more interested in the old man, eventually hopping onto the table and perching itself on top of the whiskey bottle. Theo wasn’t sure if this bird was looking for food or what, but it felt like they were having a moment. The bird stared intently at Theo for what seemed like two-whole-minutes, looking him up and down. Theo reached out his hand for the bird to rest upon his finger, but he was weak. He slipped on his chair, knocking into the bottle, leaving it smashed on the ground as the bird flew away. “Look what you’ve done, you little menace!” he screamed. “Now I can’t just die in peace!” he yelled again, weeping. He hadn’t even gotten to pour another glass. His drug was gone.

Theo didn’t bother cleaning up the mess. Instead, he stormed back inside. As if running from his problems had ever helped him before. In a big huff he found himself back in his den. His anger intensified when he was reminded of the television. The room began to spin, much like the thoughts in his head. Then everything went black as he collapsed and fell into the wall on his way down. “Not yet!” being his final thought before hitting the floor, figuring that he was already dead. To his surprise he awoke the next morning, feeling worse than ever before. His body ached. His head and heart hurt knowing that they were failing. His mind was clouded, making him wonder why he’d ever want to wake up again. He wouldn’t wish this on his worst enemy. With time, the thought of breaking lost its grip, and he was able to stand just long enough to sit, and started another day in that tiny home.

He rested longer than necessary, but what was the rush? His life was down to days or maybe hours, and he couldn’t out run it. So he sat there and took the time that he needed to cope. But he was never very good at sitting still, so he looked around the room for something to steal his time. The place was trashed, and the broken pieces of the tv on the floor left a bad taste in Theo’s mouth. So he slowly gathered them back into the box and slid it out the door. The bottles came next, filling a couple of trash bags, followed by the garbage being stacked on top of the empty pizza boxes. All being placed outside his door where he couldn’t see them anymore. “Out of sight and out of mind,” he thought. He even managed to run the vacuum.

The place looked better than it had in a long time. A little love and care had made it feel like new. He didn’t have much energy to spend, but he waddled over and dug into the garage, taking a short break after nearly every step. He came across some old pictures that had been collecting dust for decades. Memories he had been avoiding from nearly a lifetime ago, but he took them in and hung them because they were his. They didn’t seem so bad anymore. The longer he looked at them, the more the thought rang true that he had remembered things quite poorly. Based on how everything had turned out. But looking at these images, he realized that he had forgotten the good almost entirely. He had stored the past away, hoping to forget it all. But there had been good, and quite a lot of it. Covering his mouth for a moment and wiping a tear, he laughed while recalling his tales. He pulled up a chair and reminisced on his wall of memories for the rest of the night, before sleeping in a freshly made bed.

The next morning he slept in comfortably, far better than on the couch that had been cranking his neck for weeks. He stretched, a full body stretch, releasing all of his pent up stress for a moment. He was surprised when the thought of pancakes crossed his mind. He had gotten used to the idea of food leaving him nauseous, but suddenly he craved the sugary dish like he had as a child. So he rummaged through his withering rations, and pulled out an old, nearly expired, box of pancake mix. After scrambling his last few eggs to make it a meal, he scooted over into the den to enjoy it by the window.

Gleefully he scarfed it down, finishing nearly all of it. Before leaning back into his chair to pat himself on the stomach for a job well done, he placed his left-overs on the windowsill. A few short moments later, that pesky bluebird sprung itself to the ledge and snagged the final piece of food as it flew off again. Instinctively annoyed, Theo paused and shrugged it off. “What does it hurt to share?” he thought to himself. “It seemed happy to have it,” he mused, while settling comfortably back into his chair.

After a couple hours, what had started as a good day began to turn sour again. His aching stomach returned full swing, and a deep, raspy cough began consuming him. In pain, he leaned in, resting his elbow on the ledge. He knew he didn’t fair well, but he wasn’t crying anymore. All of his tears were spent. Instead, he found himself glancing over to his wall of memories once again. “Maybe I might see you soon,” he said to the portrait of his mother. “I have missed you.” Then the bird started chirping again.

To Theo’s surprise, the chirping stopped as the bird appeared on the ledge, staring curiously at him with its head slightly tilted. “I just can’t get rid of you, can I?” Theo said to the bird, while again coughing and gripping his stomach in pain. “I have nothing left here to give to you,” he said. But the bird just stared back and tilted its head the other direction. Theo’s grimace softened, and he even managed to muster a smile. “It sure is a pretty day, isn’t it?” he followed with, while coughing into his fist, unsurprisingly seeing blood. He wilted some, but turned and smiled at the bird once again. “It only took dying for me to notice it…” He continued.

The two rested there for a while, knowing well that his time was nearly up. As Theo reached out slowly, gently petting the bird with the back of his finger, he spoke again, “Thanks for being here with me. It really does mean a lot.” Leaning back for a moment to wipe a tear from his eye, he caught a glimpse of himself reflecting in the window. Shockingly, despite all of the pain and aggravation he felt, he saw “peace” in his eyes. A calmness enveloped him, as if granting him permission or an “Okay,” to die. Leaning back in, settling more comfortably with his elbow on the ledge, he watched that bluebird soar into the heavens. As he lost sight of the bird somewhere out in the distance, the world began to slow down around him. His eyes grew heavier and heavier, and as they began closing, he let out another thank you to the little bird, or perhaps to God, or maybe even to himself. He was finally at peace. At sixty-two years old, perched on a windowsill, rests a man who got to live, Theodore Ambrose.