Pacific's Bird Care Services

“Do all things end, Ma Celi?” Heron spoke in small voice. Entire of him had been claimed by apricity, but his feet, soaked in the lake; but a couple of strands trailing from his eyes, lachrymal in origin.

“All things that begin, end, Hero.” Celine replied, directing his chin towards her face. “But how can something, that has always been there, that never commenced at the first place, but witnessed the coming of all age, all stars, all you and me, come to an end?”

“And where lies the distinction between the perishable and the primordial?” Heron noticed the crypts intertwine behind the wall of saline in Ma Celi's auric irises.

“The sight of mortality is at the mercy of our eyes, but that of eternity, can be claimed solely by our heart.” Celine smiled. “Come on, it’s getting dark. Your parents will regret sending you to Ma Celi's if you catch a cold.”

 

Pacific's chirps replaced the quietude of the lakeside cottage as Heron's earthen sillage filled the inward. She landed on his shoulder. But could his sillage really be blamed? They say aves are equipped with feeble olfaction. The four-sectioned heart, maybe? Perhaps that’s what Pacific's met to Heron's.

“She possibly considers you a bird for your name, Hero.” Celine laughed.

“If that’s why she loves me, I’ll stay a bird to her forever.”

“Get to the table, Hero, I made you rice crepes.” Celine chuckled and shook her head to her grandson.

“I love you, Ma Celi.”

“I’m flattered.”

“That’s not the reply you taught me.”

“I love you, too, Hero.” Celine leaned to bless his encephalon with her portal of knowledge.

 

“Ma Celi?” Heron said amidst the silent dinner.

“I made it extra spicy so that you’d eat less.”

“And I was trying to be serious.” He said, trying to trample his giggles.

“Aren’t you too young?”

“Are we mortal?”

“We are the last to be considered mortal, Hero.” She saw confusion taking over his expression. “Ma Cherie, tell me, do you love my flesh, or my thought?”

“Your thought, of course.”

“And thoughts, stay. So, when, humans are taken for their thoughts, how can they be mortal?” Celine saw Helios return to Heron's visage with a smile. “You know,” she started, “When I was your age, I asked the same question to my aunt, Aunt Lyn. Then me, and other old souls served congregation to her wisdom. It seems to have passed.”

“Can I be any more fortunate than receiving wisdom as a gift on Christmas.”

“Yes, when you receive a token for it. Take this,” She took out the key she always wore as a necklace and hooked it around Heron’s neck. “Aunt Lyn gave this to me that evening. It had been given to her by her grandma. She had asked me to pass it down to the one who could preserve love in the world. It’s your responsibility now.”

“Thank you, Ma Celi.”

“Just keep in mind that Ma Celi doesn’t like it when her Hero is sad.”

“I won’t be sad any sooner.”

“I'd like it that way.” She smiled. “Good Night, Hero.”

“Good Night, Ma Celi.”

 

Alarms were never welcome in Ma Celi's Paradise. Sunlight always served the purpose, and since two years, Pacific did, too.

“Good Morning, Ma Celi! Merry Christmas!” Heron called out. Pacific was sedated by the edge of the dining table. “Merry Christmas, Pacific!” He leaned and said. To his surprise, a piece of paper laid beneath her. “Playing mail man, are we?” He grinned and stroke the bird gently, who flew up to his shoulder.

 

‘Hero,

First of all, Merry Christmas. You didn’t receive all your Christmas gifts yesterday. After all, the best was to remain for the day. You know, around two years back, I found a nest while plucking custard apples. At first glance, I thought it was deserted. But then, I saw a new born adorning it. She gave me so much peace. So I called her Pacific. I stayed with her till dark, waiting for her mother to return, but when she didn’t, I stayed beyond that. She never turned up. So I brought her in. To this day, I don’t know what this bird it is. But I love her as much as I love you. Please take care of her. I know I won’t make it tomorrow, and I won’t wake you up, too. You will get me to some nursing home. But, Hero, I don’t want some extra, painful hours of life. I want you to remember Ma Celi with a smiling face.

I love flowers, and Plumerias are my favorite. In fact, I love everything, and everyone. But most, I love you.’

 

Heron's expressions changed wildly throughout the letter. He sped to his grandmother room, only to find her still. She was smiling, and it was heavenly; Godly. He had never seen it before. Perhaps, Pa Row had. After all, they were together now.

“Ma Celi?” He shook her once. Tears rose in his eyes, then slid down his morning skin. The only remnants they left were infinitesimal crystals of salt, and the show of pain. “I won’t be sad any sooner, Ma Celi.” He said, but his eyes decided to originate continuous cascades. His hands shivered as he dialled his mother’s contact.

“Merry Christmas, Ma Celi!” Snow never failed at being the first to wish Ma Celi.

“Ma Celi…”

“Heron? What is it? Get me to Ma Celi.”

“Mom, Ma Celi left.”

“Left for? Where did she go?”

“Mom, she’s at peace now.” The next thing Heron heard was a deafening clatter, followed by brisk footsteps. He ended the call.

“Please keep Ma Celi calm, content and safe, and give her the afterlife she wished for. Hail and Farewell, Ma Celi.” He said in a prayer. “I love you, and will always do. And yes, I won’t be sad.” A little smile had adorned his face. He heard Pacific's notable tweets at the distance, the one's that were significant of her meal time. He had seen Ma Celi keep a container in her bedside drawer, and would give seeds from it to her, at mornings. He did the same and heard frantic knocks at the door. He opened it to the sight of both his parents weeping.

 

The following week passed in respective ceremonies. Heron tried in vain to calm his folks. Instead, their fights grew bitter than ever. He had hoped of a solution from Ma Celi, but she was strict on keeping him in the dark. He stepped out of the cottage, and turned to look at it before it was locked for a long time. He sighed. Pacific flew from inside and sang in his ear. “Of course you’re coming with me.” He said, “But I don’t know how to take care of you.” Pacific intensely looked at him with her small beady eyes, then bumped her beak to his cheek. A tear landed on it. “Let’s get home, sweetie.” He smiled.

 

“It’s just a matter of twenty days, Snow! Please talk nicely for mere twenty days.” Alistair said.

It was the fifth day of Heron waking up to his parents fighting. He got up to give Pacific her morning meal. “Great.” He mumbled on finding the jar empty. He headed to the stairs, prepared for the worst.

“Why did I even marry you?” Snow yelled. Alistair stared at her with empty eyes, then traced motion along the flight. Heron had his eye fixed to the ground; his jaws locked; his fists tightened. Alistair gestured Snow to slow down. He never wished of further compounding his son’s misery. All the same, when did a warrior succeed in pacifying a blizzard? Perhaps, never.

“Indeed, what we had been missing! Didn’t you tell him the great news?” Snow roared.

“Heron, listen –”

“I’ll be back soon.” Heron left the living with quick, hefty steps.

 

It was just a perfect day. All stores had ran out of flax; his phone had been detained in his home; his parents were separating. And lastly (maybe not), he had a bird he didn’t know how to preserve. How could all stars fall out of place at once? His eyes burnt, reminding him of how much he had cried in the past few days. Pacific's tweets were more than a tranquillizer. She rekindled the voice of Ma Celi in his ears. He heard it again, the same, sugary twitter of Pacific.

“Ma Celi,” he started, “How I grew up listening to her stories. You know, Pacific, all her tales had two characters, Ajax, and Snow. When I asked her about it, “All stories are true.” She said. That was when I started believing in love. But, now, it all feels like a deceit. Like it wasn’t ever really there. Or maybe, that’s how it is, mortal. Painful. Deceiving. Corrupt.” Light descended his face, producing the hued arc right before turning his shirt dark.

“It isn’t mortal, neither deceiving, nor painful. It was always there, like the sky, or light, or you. It’s so magnificent that it makes us experience everything. However, we never close all those doors we opened out of joy. Through some of them, creep in errors. Errors which the lovers have to debug.” Said a voice. Heron stared at her. He recalled not being home, but didn’t feel so. He was in a populous street, and determined it by the warmth he felt amidst January. The twitters of Pacific was indeed a question. One topped it still.

“What's our part then?”

“To inspire. To guide the mislead. To help. And to love, like everyone.” She replied. It adorned his face with a concavity of faith.

“I’m sorry, I just – I thought I heard my bird. Hope you have a nice day.” Heron hid his hand in another. The girl in front was dressed in a pigeon's costume, which just widened the curve.

“That means I’ve got better.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“This.” She compacted her lips to a circle, and sang in terms of a feathered. He listened to her with hooded, intrigued eyes.

“You sing just like her. I’ll call it a superpower.”

“Mind rewarding me for it?”

“If it be in my power.”

“Since you have a bird, you might like taking our Bird Care Services. We know them the best! And we won’t charge you anything!” She exclaimed. Her scheme made Heron laugh.

“And the cause of this generosity?”

“I love birds, and I’ve done a non-professional PhD on them. But my parents don’t let me have one.”

“I see. What’s your name?”

“Don’t you know it?”

“Well, how would I?”

“Well, how did you just say it, then?”

“Well, when did I say it?”

“Well, when – when you, um, you said, ‘You know, Pacific'.”

“Well, that’s astonishing, because I thought I was talking to my bird.” Heron drifted his shoe tip along the snowy carpet, making distinguishable arcs below.

“Pacific Halite Ashbillow.”

“Your middle name is as peculiar as your outfit.”

“Don’t you dare call either out.” She smirked. “My grandfather said my name completes Herons, Wheat and Sky Kissing Trees.”

“Interesting.” Heron flushed. “Well, my Pacific there is hungry, we should probably get some food now.”

“Now but I’m not—” She started, to which Heron frowned. “Oh, yeah, you don’t need to buy it, I’ve come prepared.” She shrunk her face in embarrassment. Heron shook his head in a delightful disbelief.

 

“By the Angel, you never told me you had a Goldcrest!” Pacific cried as soon as she entered Heron's room. Pacific twittered and took Heron's shoulder.

“As if I knew myself.”

“Wait a minute. Don’t tell me you were feeding her a seed mix, or flax or something.”

“I—I think she loves flax.”

“Yeah, that’s why she looks so grumpy. Wait.” Her hands searched her backpack until they rescued a contained of something moving. She flipped it open and let out a tiny spider. It seemed to have prepared itself for the worst.

“What the—”

“Your favourite meal, Pacific!” Pacific rushed to her hand and gulped the insect without thinking twice. “I guess there’s space for more! Here you go.” She dropped some more of them on her palm. Pacific savoured it with all her interest.

“You didn’t just give my bird—”

“Yes, and that was what she was screaming for. Arachnids. That is what will build up her immunity. Take this.” She handed him some similar containers, which he accepted with disgust. “Switch all her meals with this. I’ll bring some variety tomorrow. Please escort me out, now?”

“What? Oh, yeah, sure. I’ll follow.” Pacific saw shine desert his physiognomy. She started walking, twirling at the threshold to Heron's unexpected eyes.

“But, you must have a name.” she said. Heron walked to her. Birdie Pacific would have been crushed in such a distance.

“Heron Wheatley Sequoia.” He smiled and passed the door. Pacific stared after, giddy with admiration.

His home had been empty on their arrival. He heard the clutter of utensils from the kitchen. With how heavy they sounded, he knew it was Mom. She sensed his presence, too. The sound of guilt was sure to be heavier.

“Heron. About earlier—”

“I was just showing a friend out.”

“Won't you introduce them?”

“Well, he won’t, because he’s embarrassed of me, but I myself will.” Pacific said. “I'm Pacific. And you must be, Ma Snow.” She said. Heron looked at her with an extreme expression. Snow blessed Pacific with the same smile she bore when Heron was born.

“Indeed.” Her chin shook as she spoke.

“You know, Ma Snow, Heron talks of you all the time. And not to forget the fairytales of you and Pa Jax.” There was more silver in the eyes of Pacific than in the lining of morning clouds.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Pacific. Let’s go, now.” Rage rushed in Hero’s veins. The heat almost grilled Pacific's wrists. His steps always reflected his mind, and had no chance for serenity, until—

“I'd like to hear some of them tomorrow.” Snow's voice echoed betwixt the tension. The path before Heron seemed to have tumbled. But, how can wrath be objectified if it walks not on nothingness?

“Until tomorrow, Ma Snow!” Her voice faded as the door shut.

“Find your way.” He said. His eyes stayed rather on the banana peel that had fallen victim to speeding motors.

“Heron, trust me, I—”

“Trust you? With what you just did?”

“And you thought I’d just watch you suffer?”

“You better do.”

Heron wasn’t in place to accept a word. Ire filled itself in all streams of his skin. But anger wasn’t everything on his mind. If his mind was at all with him. The better of it was still with the past. Fidgeting with lids of containers is quite a calming process, until one of them made it rain spiders on him.  

“Angel!” He screamed, while frantically dusting them off his clothes. Pacific flew in, beak-picking spiders from all places they had fallen in. She seemed pretty happy. After all, hard earned food always tastes better; and digests better, too.

“Caging mustn’t feel right, why Pacific?” He sighed. “Yeah, Pacific. I’m already speaking her tongue. Caging really doesn’t feel right. Pacific, if you’re pressing so much, I will call her.” Pacific cocked her head to a side, and chirped bluntly to say, love often blames omens and metaphors. “Whatever you might say.” He blurted, right when, he received a call least expected.

“Calm down and listen to me.” Pacific said.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay. Your actions were justified.” She tried to hush him, listening to his muffled voice. “Come on, now, explain our plan to me.”

“Yes.” He giggled. “Okay, so, let’s prep up for tomorrow, first.”

 

The morning was unexpectedly serene. Light filtered through the glass to wake him up with it’s warmth. The warble of cold wind stirred itself with faint notes of flute crawling into his room. Maybe his subconscious was playing jacks, bringing forth memories of his father playing it for his wife. Or was it dawn?.

“Well, I think it’s too soon to break your beauty sleep already, Princess.” Pacific sat by the counter, with the birdie engaged eating something off her palm.

“I didn’t expect you crashing by the dayspring.” Heron said in a somnolent, yet soporific voice.

“Yes, it’s dayspring at awakening. Midday, still dayspring!” Pacific smiled.

“Midday?-” Heron's eyes widened. He grabbed the alarm clock just to see needle go past twelve.

“Anyway, Ma Snow asked me to hand you this. I wonder why she laughed meanwhile.” She sighed, handing him a mug of spiced milk. Currants rushed to his face, as he accepted his morning drink with shivering hands. He nodded in a sheepish disapproval.

“Mom seriously asked you to- Ah!” Heron grinned.

“Now this is getting on my nerves. I need to know.”

“Ah na, you don’t.” He frantically left his rest and poured downstairs. His bolt was rather unmoored, his ankle twitching at every next step. His ears kindled to a tint precedent to raspberries.

“Whoa, easy, Heron. What’s the haste?” Heron had almost run into his mother, letting the light bulb she held nearly break. He met eyes with Snow, his lips pressed hard against one another. In that faded, filtered sunlight, her firstborn reminded of her lover from young days. It wasn’t until today than she saw how much Heron had taken to Alistair

 

The spring foretold the coming of the enchanting summer. The floor of the terrace extended to intertwine with the canopy of Palash. Ever-fair, yet humble enough to kneel to a shower of heliotropes. Two kites, one mustard, another cyan, let the ether chase them about.

“I dare you to cut me!” Snow exclaimed. The two kites owned the sky with exceeding zeal. Alistair was excited, seeing competition enter the sport. His hands reached the string, ready to strangle mustard with fast motions, when he stopped.

“You know, Snow, what this entire set-up of kites – and kites in themselves – what they actually are symbolic of?” He said. Snow narrowed her eyes and smirked at him. Alistair raised his eyes to his kite. “This, denotes life. And I very much agree to this significance. Crafting a kite so carefully from mild crepe, giving it a bamboo skeleton. It’s right next to representation of birth itself. And then, when it’s ready, it leaps, under the control of us, the mind. The mind controls this life with an endless cycle of deeds. Ultimately, deeds are what connect our life with us, with our mind, with our soul. The strength of this connection determines how far we shall go, how high our leaps would be, how much we’d dream. Then again, sky is but an ocean, with a shoal at next step. A wrong one can have us hostage, followed by our fall, further devastated by the ruthless zephyr. And I believe,” He moved closer, constantly looking into her, “I’m not it.”

There was more red in her face than the setting sun; more radiance than slithering Selene.  “I-I wasn’t expecting a reply such, Alistair–”

“Yes, and you probably weren’t expecting that despite this,” His fingers traced rapid movements, too quick for Snow to catch. All she could realise was her kite coursing down through the sky. “After all, I take a sport for a sport.” He grinned.

She slammed her wheel on the floor. “I hate you, Alistair Jace Sequoia!”

“Enough to let me down from being the forever face to your punches, Snow?” He bit his lips. “I can’t believe you could think of nothing else. Seriously Snow, a kite will never come back to you after being cut!”

“I never thought about that.” She was evidently embarrassed, pressing her eyes shut.

“Needless saying, though, that I am moved.” Alistair placed his palms on her shoulders, reaffirming her. “ And I don’t have words. But you know, writing cheesy lines on a kite and using it to propose to me is quite flattering.”

“For once and all, I don’t think asking you to be the face to my punches, though keeping aside 'shine to my eyes' and 'melody to my ears', is at all cheesy. And second,” She said, lending him a playful knock, which he received with an 'ow', “Forever begins now.”

“There,” he took a couple of steps back and knelt, taking her hands to his. “Forever began forever ago.”

 

“Snow, are you here?” Alistair resurrected her to present.

“Huh? Ah, yes – yes.” Snow realised being sedated upon the dining chairs. They were looking at photo albums. Snow noticed the wrinkles crowded around Pacific’s eyes. They were nothing different, nor undervalued than the wrinkles of love she oft saw; in Alistair, and in her own self. Young love can brew potions of healing, compelling the staid to drink up. She was ready to soak in, to be called a drunkard; for her cup was filled with philtres, and it wasn’t emptying soon.

“And this picture is from his seventh Halloween, when he decided to be the 'God of Herons'.” Alistair laughed to a fancy picture of his son. He was clawing at his blond hair, holding a plumed coronal. His white turtleneck made a superior match with the silk tied around his waist.

“No contradictions to the fact that I actually seem God-like.” Heron remarked.

“Yes, more like a God of Morons than of Herons.” Pacific almost fell off her seat chortling. The house once again tinkled with homely laughter.

“You seriously couldn’t think of anything else, Pacific.” Heron let an exasperated, stern look fall upon Pacific.

“All I thought was at least better than your comeback!” She giggled. “Yeah, I totally slipped that I got something.” She presented from her backpack a container on the table.”

“Rice pudding!” Alistair exclaimed. “You know, your mom loved-“ He paused and stooped his head.

“I love the rice pudding that your dad makes.” She let her hand repose on Alistairs's. The smile in their eyes twinkled more than their tears. Pacific clutched tightly onto Heron's wrist, and let her head drop to rest on his shoulder. “And so does Heron. It’s our favourite.” She said.

“Mom, she did justice to it.” Heron said in a voice half blurred, owing to his face stuffed with the dessert. “But dad still aces it!”

“So, what else has he told you about us?” Alistair asked.

 

 It was almost serendipitous for the following forenoons to see the manor welcome quietude. Heron re-employed Pacific as his personal alarm, the routine flute music was rather feeble for the responsibility. From day to night, he’d hear hums to 90s love songs, in such order to which he was accustomed. He was seeing a change. A change that could never have been possible –

“Without her. Without Pacific. She restored peace in my life.” He was sitting on his bed, oscillating his legs forth and back. He pressed his palms against the mattress, taking deep breaths and sighing at random. Pacific was at her usual spot, snacking on the variant treats her name twin gifted her for her birthday. She tweeted casually.  You’re in love.

“Well, gratitude isn’t love, Pacific.” He rolled his eyes. But love is many things, one of them being gratitude.

“No, Pacific! I’m not in l—” He stopped as the door burst open. His heart made deliveries ten times quicker than ordinary, chiefly to his hands, ears and cheeks. “I-I understand that your new snacks are tasty, but you can’t overeat.” He stammered.

Pacific flew to the newcomer’s shoulder. Reconsider, she sang.

“But why do you prefer her shoulder to mine, now?” Heron said, watching the bird swing on it, alternating her talons.

“Pacific? Do these worms smell of jealousy Oh, it’s this wannabe bird right here.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m so jealous that I can’t really explain.” He said, playing with his pendant. Pacific noticed and squinted her eyes at it.

“Heron, is that Aunt Lyn's key?”

“Yeah, when Ma Celi gave this to me, she said she inherited it from Aunt Lyn.” He was confused. “You know her?”

“Do you recognise this?” She held up her hand. A ring of metal on her respective finger reflected the sieved light. “My grandfather gave this to me. It was given to him by his Uncle Jace.”

“Wait, the key and the ring that are meant to unite?”

“So you too grew up with the same stories I did.”

Their gazes dropped to separate ways. Someone, or something had finally said what their souls were aching to admit. A truth both acknowledged, but let ignorance rule, for there’s no greater misfortune for the sand to watch the sea still. But, when did destiny desert unity? Here, it came as an auspice. Then again, the realism of omens comes with the promise of heart.

“So, are the stories true?” Pacific said in a small voice, still looking down. She had tied her hands to a knot, and was scratching the nail of her thumb with the other. She noticed approaching feet from the corner of her eyes, warm hands came over to engulf her knot.

“All stories are true.” He said. She looked up only to meet his eyes. She then knew that never would she need a mirror. For every time, to see herself, she could just catch a glimpse of him. She saw all life in the being, maybe the being in all life from now. She could look in those gold eyes forever, and mend inch by inch.

But they fell. All the euphoria was ephemeral, and was soon bartered for despair.

“The hearing is tomorrow. What do you think will—” A Harry James classic cut him off. They raced to the rails, and stopped dead in their tracks. Snow was spinning on Alistair's index as the saxophones sounded. Nothing on Earth soothes more than the tears that acquaint joy. Pacific looked at Heron intensely to say, what are we waiting for? They ran downstairs, hand in hand. They poised to dance, whirling gracefully to the orchestra that sounded behind, as the chrysanthemums looked over.

 

I did your chore, Celi. Now I’ll see you soon.