Every Song a Bluejay Sings by Myron Matuzenko

Frances carried her art like a noose around her throat.

Most days being a poet tired her greatly. Or rather it was the act of trying to be a poet that was so tiresome. After all, Frances still had to do a warehouse job just to feed herself. She worked every day of the week: from early mornings to late evenings that were slowly bleeding into the night. There wasn’t much rest for her after the shift. Her poems awaited. All the thoughts collected during the day, all of the emotions suppressed, and all of the frustration of her current state had to be manifested. Many asked her: “Why do you write?”. What a stupid question to Frances it was. They asked it as if it was her choice to do so. In truth, there was no choice. She did it because the poems longed to be born. They had to escape her heart – otherwise, Frances would have exploded from the inside. 

And so, she let them. With greeted teeth, crumpled paper sheets, and bleeding ink she let them all out into the world. Sometimes it would hurt to write a particular line. Sometimes it felt like exorcism. But no matter how many poems she would let out, Frances’s mind would be plagued by new ones almost daily. They felt like new ghosts that had to be driven out of her body, as if it were an old, haunted house. Quite often, Frances did feel haunted by them.

It wore her down sometimes. One evening she wrote a poem that went like this: 

“Every song a bluejay sings, 

becomes a rope that drags her up

And up into the gates of heaven

She wonders if she’ll suffocate

Before the bluejay meets the heaven’s gate”

When her pen finished the last word, she gasped. “I am this bluejay” – Frances thought to herself – “I am this silly, stupid bird that never shuts up! I could have had a life - a normal life! Instead, I’m constantly doing this! Why am I doing this? What for? Why do I drive myself insane?!”

Frances turned away. The electric watch proudly displayed “2:55 a.m.”. Her shift started at 8:30 tomorrow. She has not eaten since noon.

She looked again at the lines of her newly born poem. Thoughts were swarming in her head: “Who is going to read it? Who will ever relate to that? Who will dare to publish some unknown loser like me?!”

She threw the pen off the table. A sigh full of regret escaped her mouth. ‘This is madness. I can’t do this anymore…” – she whispered.

Frances wrote no lines the next day. She felt calm. She also felt hollow and useless like never before. “This is normal!” – she tried to convince herself – “That’s how normal people live!”

On her day-offs, she would always see her mother.

After exchanging a warm hug, the older woman would usually ask her about her job and her personal life. She expected grandkids. She expected a better life for her daughter.

She asked her none of that today.

-              You look pale, - her mother said – and very sad…Has something happened?

-              No… - Frances replied. Her eyes were empty, almost transparent like glass.

-              Oh, but I can sense that something is not right!

After a long awkward pause, the mother said:

-              I know just the thing to cheer you up! Look what I’ve found in the drawer yesterday!

She passed Frances a bright blue sheet of paper.

-              Read it! – she ordered – I am sure it will make you happy, just like it made me yesterday.

Frances took the card from her mother’s hands. It was full of doodles of flowers and birds and stars. In the middle, there was a poem. Frances must have forgotten about it completely. She read:

“To dearest mummy,

I don’t have flowers

Or long work hours

But I have written this for you.

To let you know –

I love you so

In case you never knew.

You make me feel

You make me free

Whenever I feel blue

With you, I fly

Like birds in the sky

Oh, mummy, I love you!”

Frances looked at her mother:

-              How did you find that?

-              It was in the drawer with your old-school stuff! – the older woman smiled – you were thirteen when you wrote it for me, don’t you remember? I am so happy I found it, Frances! I always knew you had a talent. Do you remember the school poetry competition? Or how you wrote that hilarious limerick for Uncle Albert? He still quotes it to this day! 

The mother clapped once dramatically. Her brows raised and her smile widened.

-              Uncle Albert still quotes the poem you wrote for him 10 years ago! He remembers it. Don’t you remember?

Frances felt strange. She didn’t reply.

“It’s been ages…” - she thought – “I was twenty when I wrote that limerick. Sixteen when I won the school poetry competition. Thirteen when I wrote the poem for my mom. I was so young – still a child then!”

-              Don’t you remember? – the mother asked again

Frances did remember.

She saw herself: a nervous child showing her parents the first poem she wrote about a little azure forest bird who learns how to fly. A young teen who made a present for Mother’s Day the best way she could.

She saw her classmates congratulating her on being the first in that competition. She saw her uncle Alfred with a cup of whiskey in his hand, holding his wife’s hand and laughing. It was so much fun for him! And it was so fun for her.

Frances was happy. 

“This is what I’ve been doing for all those years” – she thought to herself – “This is what I am good at. I’ve practised this skill for so long because I love it… I love this silly, childish poem that I wrote for my mom!”

She looked at her mother. She held that little blue piece of paper with such care. She smiled.

A realization hit Frances: “She loves it too…”

She whispered:

-              Yes Mom. Of course, I remember.

They shared a hug. Frances felt as if new life was breathed into her.

After some time, the mother asked:

-              Have you written anything new, dear? I would like to hear your new material!

Frances thought for a moment. She then said:

-              I guess you could say I had a creative block of sorts. I haven’t written much lately…

-              Oh, but you should! – the mother immediately interrupted – I know you’ve been down lately with that job of yours. But don’t you give up, Frances! Someday they will publish you! 

-              I know, I know – Frances sighed – it just gets a bit hard to go on sometimes…

The older woman looked at her attentively, as if she was trying to decode Frances’s words. She then took her daughter’s hand.

-              I know that it can get hard sometimes – she said – and when it does just do it for me. And for Uncle Albert. And all others who believe in you. We believe in you, Frances. You are a special girl, after all! Don’t bury your talent six feet deep. Art can seem like a wild goose to chase, I know…Don’t ever forget how special you are. And keep going… for me.

Frances stayed silent for a moment.

-              I will – she said – I promise I will.