Of sparrows
H and I are talking about sparrows today and how they represent many things. When we sit like this after long days together and speak about symbols, I have to remind myself not to delve too deeply into the meanings of things. I’m next to him on the couch wrapped in a towel and leaning into his shoulder. He is focused. Not on meanings and words, but on the numbers in front of him. His work demands it.
Numerals and patterns are the fundamental elements of H’s day. My hours are full of subtext and nuance. H says what he means. I choose my words only after considering interpretations. H looks me directly in the eye when he tells me something. My gaze shifts to the corner of the room. H pleads with me to let him finish what he’s going to say. He wants to get it all out before I start to pick apart the sentences.
H can talk and work with ease until we get heated. My voice hits a certain pitch. I ball my hands up close to the sides of my head and squeeze my eyes shut. H presses on my shoulder with the arm he puts around me. I know what this means. He and I take turns grounding us so that we don’t spiral upward and let our words carry us to places we were never meant to go.
I let him pull me closer. I squint so that I can no longer make out individual numbers in his work laid out in front of us. Jumbled together, they represent something else entirely. I try not to delve too deeply into the meanings of things. H thinks sparrows represent long journeys and new beginnings. I know that sparrows always find their way home.
