Lonely People

The Birds

The world is a cold and unforgiving place. It takes and takes from the people living on it, and, for what? For a life of tragedy and hopelessness? It sucks the love from every corner of the world, and it doesn't have any mercy.

I thought the world was cruel when it took my mother. She died in her sleep, and the next day the wails of her three children she left behind could be heard across the city. I didn't think it could get much worse than that, but to see your own mother be hit and killed by a car, that was beyond cruel. Never did I think something so dark as that could happen to someone like John Lennon.

Even the streets of Liverpool seemed to mourn right along with him. Not a single pedestrian passed as I sat on the stoop of my house. It was as if Liverpool had suddenly become empty.

I held a tea in my hand, but I wasn't drinking it. My anxiety seemed to clamp at my nerves to make it impossible for me to swallow. All I wanted was to go and make sure John was okay. The funeral hadn't even started yet and I was already desperate to see him. 

"Mel, what are you doing?"

I glanced up. George stood a few feet away from me. His hands were shoved in his pockets and his hat was on crooked. He looked at me with obvious concern.

"I'm building a bleeding rocket ship," I replied, "What does it look like I'm doing?"

George smirked, "You don't have to get sarcastic."

"I'm always sarcastic."

"That is true."

He moved to sit by me. I scooted over slightly to give him enough room. He looked down at my tea and asked, "Are you drinking that?"

"No, you can have it."

I handed it to him. He took a sip, smiling at the flavor. I had made my favorite, lemon with a dash of honey, which happened to be George's favorite as well. We sat on the stoop together for a few minutes, gazing out onto the Liverpool streets. Nothing interesting passed, though that wasn't a surprise.

"I tried to visit John last night," George said, "He wouldn't let me in."

I sighed, "That sounds like him. We're lucky he let Paul and me in."

"Wonder if he'll quit the band."

"That'll be the last thing he does," I replied, "He channels his emotions into music. He won't quit, mark my words."

George took a generous sip of the tea. I sighed deeply, running my hands through my hair, "I wish there was something I could do to help him."

"You can only help him as much as he'll let you," George replied, "He won't let most of us get near him."

"I don't think he'll let me in again."

George frowned, "Maybe Paul can get through to him. They seem to have a good friendship."

"I dunno, he won't even talk to his Aunt. Grief works in weird ways, I s'pose."

George shrugged. On the tree nearby, a bird sang. Several birds across the city responded, creating a choir of birdsong. I listened to each note from each tree. The birds had their own symphony going, one that reflected whatever emotions the listener felt. To the happy people, the birds were singing happy tunes, but to the sad people, the birds sang through their despair. All I could hear was a desperate call to someone close to them. 

"The birds are singing," I pointed out.

George cleared his throat, "Maybe they're weeping too."

"The birds are singing," I said, "Maybe they're weeping."

"That sounds like a song."

George reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap piece of paper and a pencil. I lifted an eyebrow but didn't ask why he carried it around. He wrote the two sentences down.