Salad found the charm he had been seeking since the dawn of the solstice—tucked in a nest tilting off the branch of his own strayed thoughts. A gleam—a shine—a sparkle sought his attention. A simple turn and a tilted head—so there he climbed, up the bark, clawing and scratching until its limb sunk in welcoming manner. The morning was tidy—each leaf in its place, a glitter in the grass, and Salad poked his hand inside his own nest until he felt the twilight of the charm warm his fingers.
A distant thunder—maybe a song and a song, a song of a bird played in his head. A hum or a hammer—he once heard or saw.
A voice not of his own. Perhaps, there was an echo which tremored his mind.
A voice and a voice—there was no voice and so his voice took him away. His hand in his mouth, fiddling until he grasped the charm, muted and curious, pulling it out—scraped knuckles of teeth and twigs, Salad found a light amid the moss. A glow so familiar—he hadn’t seen since the time of mud and dandelions.
A joyous hark indeed but there was no one around to hear—only a fluttering lark, hovering in halos, perked its head in wondering fashion.
The sky was there.
Beyond the nest—this way and that—a curve and a loop, a memory arrived from the beak of the bird, its wings still in flap. This uncracked egg held in such fragility—such a charm to cause such yolk when once Salad was put together by a laughter not of his own.
The lark’s wings in full speech amid a silent air—every leaf in its place, Salad knew better to have such a memory nestled on his tongue. A pain and a pain. A shout and a hop. Beacon or beak—a bird brought forth a chime for the charm.
From such a flap of each and every feather, came forth an air of force to cause Salad to shuffle his eyes amid stray leaves.
Salad was dressed in his best brown suit—starched and fitted, but in his memory, there he was as a child playing castle with his sister in the tree house they nailed together using wood and rust. A hammer and hammer—board and plank to build such a crooked red house in the palm of the tree, shifted like Salad’s own head when he found himself sitting on star a long time ago. His sister was fond of this memory—his sister no more. A merry-go-round and round and round—a merry-go round and round and round, and round and round his dizzied head went around the twigs stuck in her hair.
He reached out his hands to feel a skin, a shoulder, a cheek, but all he felt was the name he didn’t know.
“Sister—sister.”
A voice and a voice. There was no voice.
He let out his tongue, in search of taste.
Salad lifted his arm and reached out toward a tree. A tree that was once a home where siblings lived for tea and talk. Through its fingers Salad found a sun in pieces—like the puzzles they would play from morning to night when the stars drooped over them like a lullaby.
A fist to the sky—a charm so wrapped and cozy, he held it up for her to see. On the fingertip of a branch sat the lark in wonderous fashion. This way and that went its head, such eyes to mask the sun with clouds of curiosity.
Salad knew, once, that his sibling was a bird taken away soon after the tree house crashed into the dirt below. A burial with no body—a grave without a soul—a grave situation, he lived his days in constant tremor until he found her charm that day in between the simple twigs of his nest.
Salad—with every memory he picked up and put in his pocket, he forgot more and more. Every time he remembered, the more he forgot.
Now—a voice in his head and a song of a bird, he heard and didn’t hear. A sudden shine—a giggle.
A lifted head and a smile—so there he was in light and awe. In came the wind—the stirring of leaves as it must be, and so Salad chirped and chirped until the lark perched in his nest.
There was no night and there was a sun, and there was the lark with calming eyes. Salad reached its sight and wandered with his thought—a new memory, not of his own—a sister or bird with teeth and skin and skull.
A twirl and a tilt—this lark grabbed Salad’s charm with soft talons, and he knew the day—such the anniversary. He straightened up and brushed his suit. He fixed his hair and wiped the dirt off his shoes.
“Sister, sister—where is your voice?”
He turned back around and faced the lark with the charm and his sister.
There was no voice—a voice and a voice.
A tug and a pull and there was a voice—a voice to be heard and so Salad listened. He held its light and the lark fluttered and flapped, singing to the morning’s rise—a song Salad once heard in a castle far far away. There was no one there to see such a spectacle—there was no one there to hear the song of the lark and the laughter of Salad, floating around in his sister’s smile. As it happened in quiet comfort, his feet lifted—his arms stretched and his mouth opened. A charm and its nest—Salad didn’t let go, and there was the sky with his sister’s voice in the distance.
