The Half Life

I stepped out of the front door into the still of morning. The moon greeted me with half a face, half a smile, as if to say, enjoy the bittersweet days while they last. She lay dead on the road before me.

Her wing shielded her head, and I wanted to believe that it was her final act on this earth, the way a human closes its eyes or a superhero covers itself with its cape. I wanted to believe that she had not fought or suffered, that she had simply wrapped herself into death, slowly, calmly.

I don’t know how she died, whether she had dropped from the sky or been hit by a car in passing, but she lay there, still and quiet as the dawn itself. I wished I had time to bury her, but instead I could only move her to the side where she wouldn’t be hit again, where she could remain in the same serene state I found her.

Her feathers trailed the street as I walked the few blocks to my car. Their grey softness danced quietly through the blackened street against the blackened sky. I thought of petals thrown by flower girls. I thought of orange leaves in fall. I thought of the way old movie stars glide through ballrooms with such precision and ease. I thought of how beautiful her ordinary feathers seemed after she was gone.

And I thought of what my feathery trail would look like after I was gone. If I were to add up all of the wasted time in my life – if I were to believe that there was such a thing as wasted time, that is – would it follow me? Was this her trail of feathers never used? A relationship never explored? A place never visited? A writing talent never developed to its full potential? Each feather that floated past me seemed to ignite some longing within me that I had yet to admit to myself.

And then the feathers stopped. And so did I. Dead in my tracks. I looked back up at the half moon watching me. I looked at the blackness beside where her other half would be. I decided each were beautiful, the space already glowing with silver divinity and the space left empty, the space burning with the potential of fullness. The feathers not yet used were as beautiful as those who still clung to her fallen wing.

Perhaps I am no different. Perhaps the space not yet filled will be the most beautiful of all. Perhaps being whole is not about being complete, but about being happy enough to leave room for possibility. The blank canvas of my life that is to come is just as full as the colorful tapestry of my life that I have already created. It just needs to be put in the right lighting.

Even if that lighting is the simple darkness of morning, where a dead bird glows with the passionate wildness of fire. Where a half moon looks down, and knowingly smiles her bittersweet half smile.