Bats' Wings

Sometimes I get upset with myself. Tonight, for instance. It was a beautiful Spring day, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. I was warm, and took pleasure in the sun hitting the nape of my neck, and was happy to see that my freckles (my mother says they are akin to cinnamon sugar sprinkled on the bridge of my nose and apples of my cheeks) returned.

The day is not the problem.

The problem is the evening: when my neck gets cold, when my freckles fade, and when birds are replaced with bats. Something strange happens to me. I can't quite explain it, but I find it comforting in an odd way. To me, perfect vision makes things so clear that they may be invisible. Sometimes your sight needs to be impaired if you seek truth.

Anyway, tonight I went home (where I am writing this now), and seeing that I had just finished my meal, I figured it would be a good idea to watch the sun set. I went outside and sat on a swing. Secretly, I feel as if my reasons for enjoying watching the sun set are different than most everyone else. Sure, the colors are lovely, the temperature ideal, but what I love most is how quickly it all comes to end after what seems like hours of rosy hues. With the snap of a finger (or so it seems), everything fades to black, swallowing all of us--the trees, the birds, the people--in its dark mouth. I imagine being stuck in its stomach for approximately 8 hours, until being released in the morning. I can be anything for those 8 hours, and it is somewhat disappointing when I wake up and realize that I have a definite shape and form.

As I'm watching the sunset, between the budding branches of the trees (quite haggard from a windy winter), I can't help but think that they appear to me as wrinkles of the sky. And then I think that if branches are indeed wrinkles, and are connected to trunks, which have roots in the ground upon which I stand, then am I an extension of the sky as well? I cannot say for certain, however if that is the case, as much as it is whimsical it is rather disconcerting, for as beautiful as the sky is, what is it really? You can't touch it, you can't taste it or smell it, it does not make a sound (wind is but an element of sky), and the only color we usually see is blue. Is it nothing, then? And by extension, am I and everything I see nothing as well? I stopped swinging and sat in silence.

For a while I eye my surroundings. I see a deck filled with pots and soil, some skeletal flower remains punching through the dirt like barbed wire. A thin layer of dust covering a patio table, where the summer before, boys and girls spit watermelon seeds at each other. I look further, and see a rusty basketball hoop that I never used as a child, its yellowed strings hanging limply like a noose. I see lights in houses turn on one by one in the distance as the sky begins to deepen its shade, and I squint my eyes. I feel as if I'm surrounded by stars. I wonder if this is what life after death is like (if it so exists): there is warmth and life all around you, but it is just out of reach. All you can do is watch, trying to shed tears that do not exist.

I see hawks fly past me to their nests, and am reminded of my grandfather. When I was little, I thought he was magical, for all of the blue jays and cardinals would eat peanuts from the palm of his hand (and his alone) when we went to the park. He flew warhawks in Vietnam; I figure flying friends are flying friends, regardless of how may feathers are on your chest. And then I begin to think how glad I am that he is not rotting in a box underground; I'm glad we had him cremated. To me, dust is close enough to a bird anyway; a coffin is just another ship lost at sea.

I hear the sound of my mother's car pull into the driveway, and I kick my legs out to begin swinging again, mainly because I don't want her to think that I am sad. After all, unhappy people don't swing on swings. They sit. It's getting darker out. I hear a door close, and the sound of her clearing her throat. She steps up the deck stairs and sits at the table.

"What did you do today, Savannah?"

I smile. Ultimately, I didn't do much of anything. Do we ever? I ran two miles, ate two apples, washed my hair. "You know," I say, "not much." I could have engaged in more conversation, maybe about how happy I was to be able to wear my violet sundress today, but along with my freckles, the night also took my daytime sense of idealism.

Out of nowhere, a bat swoops down onto the deck. My mother shrieks and I watch in awe as it soars back into the sky, crazed and berserk as a kamikaze warrior. It flies in erratic circles. "I hate bats!" my mother squeals. I continue the back and forth motion of the swing.

"Why?" I ask.

She shrugs her shoulders. "I don't know, it's irrational I guess."

After a few moments of watching the bat fly around itself, I answer, "I love bats. You know, there's no other animal like them."

It swoops down again; my mother shields her face and then shakes her head. "I'm going in, Savannah. You should too. It's dark, you know."

"I know," I say.

I hear the gentle click of the door closing, and watch in peace as the bat flies erratically, as if its own body parts were foreign instruments. And I continue to swing: back and forth, back and forth. You see, I really am fascinated by bats; there is something tragically human about them. After all, they've been given the ability to fly, but they don't know how to use their wings. Instead of flying around the world, they just go in circles.

It's completely dark as I am writing this. There is no way to discern my ink from the clouds and my knees from the trees. Everything is black, and all is silent save for the frantic fluttering of bats' wings and the occasional rusty moan of my swing. I see nothing, only what my mind thinks should be. All is gone, and nothing is everything and everything is nothing. I am in motion, much like the world is, but I am not really moving. And with that logic, I nor anything else can ever really leave. And then I decide that my grandfather could be here, or there, or maybe even over there, but it doesn't really matter. And then I realize, sitting on the swing (or chimney top or branch or boat, I cannot tell when all is dark), that that is not only how it should be, but that is how it is.

I leave the swing and look to the sky where I can see the silhouette of those twisted birds against the moonlight, still moving in circles. I close the door, and the world continues to spin and stay in the same place.