April should have marked my return home to England. This was the plan until my plans changed. Instead it was only a visit. My most monumental task involved sorting through all my belongings, trappings of the past seven years and deciding what was worth shipping to Washington, D.C. I caught up with dear friends, wandered Shoreditch and ate bangers and mash. It was a good trip.On my last night in London, my friends and I were elated from inspired cocktails with hints of chilli or ground pepper. After midnight we left the Hide Bar keen to catch the last Tube. Walking through a long tunnel we saw a flapping creature in the middle of the street. Wings rose up from the road but the body refused to follow. The flailing animal seemed pitiful, feverishly flapping but grounded. It was a hurt pigeon.
"Should we move it out of the way or something?" Lizzy asked.
"No," I said with absolute drunken confidence. "If it's badly hurt it's better to stay in the road. It'll get run over and die faster." Harsh, but sometimes it's best not to interfere.
My friends nodded in agreement. Headlights approached.
"Don't look," warned Nabila and we continued walking. The car sped past us, followed by another and another. I peeked. The vehicles had dodged the bird and it was still alive.
"Wait!" I said. "What if that's the wrong decision?" I jogged back through the tunnel. Palm outstretched I stopped the next car and picked up the pigeon.
About a week earlier, my parents rescued a hummingbird. The tiny bird had slammed into a window and they tenderly fed it drops of sugar water. They took photos and even uploaded a video to Youtube. They are tender-hearted and tech-savy. The link went out to friends and family who were touched by the beauty of the small bird.
This pigeon was not my parents' hummingbird.
I don't like pigeons. Bert from Sesame Street was a fan and some folks say they're doves. Not me. London pigeons are filthy with oily, matted feathers. I've seen them eat dried vomit.
I held the pigeon, its plump body unmarred, wiry feet dangling. It emitted a crumbling coo but didn't struggle. I couldn't see anything obviously wrong but clearly it was not well. I put it down on the sidewalk. If it was going to live this was a better place for it.
Did I wrongly interfere and extend its mysterious suffering? Or did I save the bird's life by preventing it from being flattened? When I walked by I was certain doing nothing was the right thing. A few moments later I was confident the opposite was the case. Lizzy later said she'd agreed with me each time.
Of course I have no way of knowing if the bird lived. Gears turning on drunken instinct, I acted free from doubts which can infect my sober decisions. There are no photos, there is no video to upload. This piece is the odd event's only documentation.
Now imagine what the driver saw. Wings rising from the street in the illuminated tunnel. A woman stepping forward into the road and commanding him to stop with an outstretched hand. A vision in the night.
