we are all white birds.

there are some things too big for words. too sweeping and panoramic. too evasive of time. one night, beneath the coldest, darkest sky you've felt in some time, you ride across the state line and find yourself in maine. maine. that word, that state, that concept, that owned and owed you so much, has found its way here. you are surprisingly nonplussed by this fact, but also know that you cannot even begin to process it all, for it is too much. so you and your dear friend stop behind some hotel and sleep the night. you rise, and spend a laughter filled day, pedalling into your final city of cities; portland, maine. how has this all come to pass? later that night, you will find yourself on a bus with your soon to be wife, riding to a restaurant where you will meet mike and celebrate his birthday. you will have dinner, and the three of you will walk back to the hotel where you will stumble into sleep.

you spend the next day floating about the city in a haze of the most surreal colors, and have dinner at an amazing restaurant before heading off to sonya and bob's, where you spend the next two days lavished by the brilliance of wonderful hosts and a miraculous bakery.

alas, there is simply too much to tell.

then you are in a car, riding up the coast to an inn on the water. it is august 29th, and the fog, in all of its physical wonder, has come pounding in with wings. great white wings. you will think of wings again, merely days later, when you are riding your bike alone on some farm road in eastern canada, and you see swans on the water. a baby with its parents, the father with wings spread and held back, pinned to the air. and you and keri are swans. you become white birds, standing in a room in some new place. or hovering by the quiet sea.

you dress and stumble about aimlessly. you walk down to the water, and stand there waiting. the last of the waiting. you look out over the blue, and listen to the small boat, crashing into the dock where it is moored. it twists in the water, woodenly. and then mike and keri are coming down the hill. they are laughing. it is all a part of some dream, some beginning and some end. somehow, there is everything and everyone here. nothing is absent. you recite after the woman. you place rings upon fingers and you kiss. read your own words. and you are married.

you are one with the misty air, and you fly out, over and above the water, snakes and butterflies and white bats, trailing behind. the champagne spills about. mike pulls from the bottle. the three of you have dinner, and the laughter nearly breaks your ribs.

you spend the next day wandering about. napping and sitting on porches, watching the sun fall into the arms of the fog. this fog, this endless fog, is one of the most beautiful things you've ever seen. you sleep again, and bring mike his coffee to the rented car in the parking lot. you drive and drive, singing along with the radio, you're first backtracking of the trip. you pass places you recall, and feel the sadness of change and the end of things. and then you are there. you are on the corner, across the street from claudette's house, outside of charlie's where you had both lunch and dinner, and mike is unloading his things. the tears are there, but they remain inside. you have a plane to catch.

and there in that moment, with mike on the corner, you standing by your new wife, the great sitting is over. you hug and high five. yes, i said high five. you shake your head a bit in dismay, climb back into the car, and drive off, looking back as mike goes through his bags searching for something. you wonder why things have to end, an answer you know, and you wonder when you'll see this man again who you've grown to love so deeply.

what a mix of emotion you feel all in an instant. new wife. new home. end of bike trip. goodbye to friend. the stopping of movement.

so you drive off. you catch your plane, your wife holding your hand as the giant steel {?} bird undulates in the sky. twists and dips and turns. this breaking of the sky is like new life itself. you still despise flying.

and then, somehow, you are here. here in canada, trying to find the heart of your new home. you wish it would snow now, so that you could crawl inside of it, cold and white, surounding your skin and your bones. you need time you say. so much time to absorb it all. you walk around the house, wondering where to put your things. your wallet and your shoes. the smallest of things matter the most sometimes. you spend an afternoon working on your bike, and ride off to some town whose name you've heard so many times, but never seen. never known. you see the white birds, the swans, and think back to mike on that street corner, your wife. your wife, your wife, your wife. you stop, and stare at them for some time, drifting from one place to the next, and then you ride off, as you drove that day. you move. it is such a simple thing.

for how else could you end such a journey? how else? or perhaps, such things never end. perhaps the end of this simply does not exist. wings spread and held back, pinned to the air.

we are all white birds. all of us.

Posted by jeff pitcher at September 4, 2004 03:07 PM

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