The Owl

I have an owl on my mantelpiece. It’s white, made of porcelain. It has a small chip on its left ear,  from when I was in one of my rages, when I had swept everything from the shelf to the floor. It is actually quite lucky to just get that, a small chip. The blue vase had shattered to pieces. It’s made of strong stuff that owl. It won’t break that easily. We’re different, him and me (I suppose it’s a he – I wouldn’t quite know for sure). I’m not as strong as he is – I’m not so shatter-proof. I wish I were. He has seen much, that little white owl. Sometimes, I think I can hear him sigh. Sometimes, I think I can see him stoop just a little, his little head bent forward in his glass chest. Of course, it’s a stupid notion. Maybe, sometimes, I like imagining the whole world is pining with me. And maybe, sometimes, the owl acts sad so I wouldn’t feel so alone so often. I wish he could talk. I wonder what wise words of advice he would impart. Or perhaps he would just ask me not to throw him off the shelf again. He wouldn’t be so lucky next time. It’s not his fault if I was born this way, prone to sudden flights of in-explainable anger, indescribable sadness. It’s not his fault if he was given as a gift to cheer me up – not his fault if he did not succeed in his endeavor. No, it was no one’s fault. I look at him now, approach him slowly. He seemed to me like his feathers are bristling, wings ruffled. He’s expecting the very worst. But I take him down, put him gently on the small round table next to the armchair. He seems to look at me startled, surprised, when I fix his little left ear back on. I step back and I smile. His white eyes are large and blue like little oceans.  The recognition there fills me up with a small burst of happiness. It will be gone soon. but while it lasts, let me be content that I will try to fix all that is broken. Maybe someday, I’ll be able to fix what is broken inside myself too.