BIRDHOUSE
I’m standing on the porch, looking at a house that no longer holds me. Ten years — a whole life. Or maybe a mirage — once it seemed like an oasis, and then it vanished in the hot wind of disappointment. He’s inside, with the children. I can hear their voices through the glass. And that’s fine. That’s how it should be. I’ve whispered that to myself a hundred times. But here I am — holding onto the railing, as if it could keep me from slipping into nothingness. I’m leaving. Not for a break — really leaving. And no one cries. Not him. Not the kids. Not even me. Only something creaks inside me, like an old spring: You are no longer part of this house. Not a mother in the usual way. Not a wife. Not even an ex-wife. Just a passerby. But this morning I woke with one thought: I want to build a birdhouse.
I used to think our home was a fortress. But it turned out to be just a box of bricks, with tiny cracks hidden beneath the surface. We patched them up with wallpaper, rugs, children’s laughter. But a birdhouse — it doesn’t pretend. It’s small. Delicate. Vulnerable. But it’s built with care. With intention.I cut the boards myself. The hammer echoed through the hollow rooms. I had forgotten what it feels like — to create with my own hands. Not for anyone else. Just because I wanted to. Because I’m still alive.When it was finished — a little crooked, a little rough, but full of soul — I held it like a child and stepped outside. There’s a maple tree in front of the house. We planted it together, once. Back then, we thought it would grow with us. But we withered first. I climbed the ladder and nailed the birdhouse to a branch. It swayed gently in the breeze. A little home for those passing through. No walls built from resentment. No locks. Just a place to rest. That’s what a home should be.
BIRDHOUSE VIDEO
I looked at it, and suddenly I understood: I am that birdhouse. There isn’t much left in me, but what remains — it’s enough. Enough for someone who might need to land one day. Someone who might want to stay. Or simply be near. I don’t need a polished façade anymore. I need air. Room. Light. I climb down, dust my hands off, and turn my back to the house. The road ahead is strange, uncertain — but it belongs to me. Behind me, the birdhouse remains. A quiet trace. Not a plea. Not a promise. Just a memory that I was here. That I still am. And maybe, come spring, someone will call it home.