TWO WEEKS IN 

A soldier is found at the bottom of a lake. A nuclear site is bombed. A jumbo jet crashes in India after take-off. Senators voice concern that vaccines are being destroyed by the new Health Secretary. Also, the Internet has discovered the fastest way to silky, soft skin. 

It’s been fourteen days since you started this new routine. 

A friend is having a garage sale. Most of what she’s selling are leftovers from exes. You fantasize that the ex’s ex will unknowingly shop the sale and buy something they’ve always coveted. On the deck, a bird pecks at the stuffing from the worn-out couch while her mate keeps watch nearby. You see her fly away with the puffs in her beak, her mate not far behind—a true wingman. 

On the street corner a man wears lavender socks and a matching lavender blouse. The mayor stands in the lush backyard of an expansive home adjacent to the abandoned house where raccoons live in the attic and people enter the crawl space, looking for anything valuable. Sometimes the biggest raccoon stretches herself across the parapet and bathes in the moonlight. 

The mayor has grown a beard. He’s trying to be relatable. There’s a rumor he’s been unfaithful to his wife. These words have no meaning anymore. Who’s faith? Whose faith? Who is faith? 

Still, you sort of like him. It’s a deeply-rooted affinity for boys who smile more than they should. He sends earnest e-mails informing citizens that the city is strong. The city is hurting. The city is yours. The city is a sanctuary. 

He is asking for small donations so that he can access public funding for his re-election campaign. Even if you want to give him more than five dollars, he won’t let you. It’s called integrity, he says, smiling more than he should. It’s a hokey speech. He has tucked in his shirt for the event. You leave with your five dollars still in hand and smoke a joint on the way home. 

Downtown there are lines for food and lines for tattoos. Nobody seems upset about the fact that they are waiting in such a long line for either. Do they know about the attack on the nuclear site? Can anybody do anything to reverse this escalation?

Today, tattoos are cheap. Everyone is sweating in the sun, happy for a bargain. An elementary-aged boy pulls a little red wagon with a cooler in it. He is selling plastic water bottles and making change from his Pokémon fanny pack. 

There is a sole survivor from the plane crash in India. Seat 11A. This miracle makes it worse for the families of the rest who died. 

Your mother tells you she’s lived too long. She’s worried about pain and suffering. The emotional kind. So many people are still alive. She doesn’t want to witness more death, more suffering. 

It reminds you of the terrible bout of insomnia you had as a child. You were so afraid that everyone in the house would fall asleep before you, that you couldn’t fall asleep. And then you were, inevitably, the only person awake. And there is no lonelier feeling. Even now. 

The summer’s heat makes the asphalt soft and your feet sweat. At home, you put ice in the coffee, ice in the tea, ice on your feet. Birds chirp even over the noise of the air conditioning. 

The soldier had gone out in a rowboat. Fishing? No lure, no rod, no tackle on board. He was a great friend to many. Toxicology will be done. His grandfather’s rosary was found around his neck. Nobody knew he was suffering. His mother is inconsolable. 

Your partner is shouting from the backyard. There is time to practice calm, you remind yourself. Whatever has happened, you can be calm. 

He is standing on the deck, his face distorted, his hands cradling something. Bring scissors, he shouts at you. You know how to do that. You bring the scissors to him. 

Between his palms sits a bird with a long, fuzzy string, still a part of the couch cushion, wrapped around its tiny, sharp, avian claw. 

Your partner extends his hands so that you can cut the cord. You clip it as close to the claw as you can and you both hold your breath. 

How long do you think it’s been stuck? Your partner asks you with terror in his voice. How to know, but the quivering in its chest? It has broken its own leg trying to escape. You imagine the initial flapping, the panic, the repeated effort.

The bird blinks, flaps one wing, goes nowhere. Your partner pushes at the dislocated leg, trying to urge it back into place. 

You notice the bird’s eye, alert and ready. Your partner holds his hands above his head, as though bringing it closer to the sky will help. But the bird doesn’t move. 

The sole survivor had been travelling with his brother. He was seated right next to him. Inches apart. They were planning to work on writing a speech during the flight, which they would give together at their parents’ anniversary party later that night in London. 

Because dusk is falling and there are dinner plans. You must make a decision. What to do with this lame, half-winged bird? Reluctantly, your partner sets it down in a flower pot on a pile of mulch. You fill a small bowl with water and place it beside the bird. 

Your partner watches from the window as the bird seems to hop and then collapse. Both of you gasp. 

He is crying. You want to comfort him. You know you can’t. This pain, this panic. This bird’s body was in his hands. He will have to hold it.