MY LITTLE BIRD

The ambulance is groaning around me, voices are shouting, someone is pressing on my side so hard I think they’re trying to push the soul out of me and then suddenly I’m not there anymore.

I’m slipping.

I feel my body, but I’m not inside it. I’m hovering somewhere just above the pain, like my spirit is unhooking itself one memory at a time.

Everything goes light.

Not the clean, bright kind.

The fractured kind like stained glass when the sun breaks through wrong, throwing colors in places they shouldn’t be, bending the world sideways.

And he’s there.

My grandfather.

In his wheelchair, the old one with the squeaky wheel ; the squeak that used to chirp every time he’d try to turn, like the chair was complaining in Italian right along with him. His bad leg stretched out on its cushion. The breathing tube in his nose curves down like a little halo gone sideways.

I’m tiny again, running toward him with my usual reckless joy and of course I step right on the tube. I remember the sound it made, a sad little pfft and the way his chest hitched. His face winces…and then he laughs.

That warm, rumbling, chest-shaking laugh that made everything feel safe, even when the world felt like a place full of wrong corners and sharp voices.

And suddenly another memory folds into this one the smell of my old plushies, the ones I dragged everywhere. Some of them smelled like dust and warm cotton, soft and sleepy like the inside of an attic. Others smelled faintly of detergent from the rare times they’d get tossed in the wash after I’d cried too hard into them. My favorite plush had the smell of vanilla from that perfume my mom bought for me. Hugging them felt like sinking into a soft little universe: the matted fur warmed by my hands, the slightly scratchy tag under my cheek, the bean-filled limbs that made them flop perfectly when I pulled them close. They kept a “warm spot” every time I hugged them like tiny hearts beating just for me.

Now I see my grandpa cupping my cheeks even now, even in this place and I remember how rough his hands were from decades of work. Life never gave him a break, but he gave all his tenderness to me.

I smell him too.

That familiar mix of aftershave and tomato sauce, the faint buttery scent from the Parmesan he grated too aggressively, making a little snowstorm over the tablecloth.

I see the little crumbs of food on his sweater from his clumsy eating, the grey hair that curled gently at the ends, the small grey beard he trimmed as best as he could, all of his body gave up on him after the accident.

Behind him is the tablecloth the yellow-and-white one with green and black olives that always smelled like pasta steam and nostalgia, the fabric a little rough, a little faded, but soft where my cheek pressed when I hid under the table.

And tucked behind that memory another one, small and glowing:

Me twirling in the living room as a kid, dancing in my socks, sliding across the floor. The music didn’t matter sometimes it was an old cartoon theme, sometimes a commercial jingle, sometimes just the rhythm of my own heartbeat. The floor felt like ice under my socks, letting me glide. Spinning made the world blur into streaks ; couch, lamp, window, couch, lamp, window - a carousel of colors. I’d throw my arms out and pretend they were wings. Sometimes I spun so fast I fell right onto my bottom and laughed so hard my stomach hurt. Dancing felt like being made of bubbles and sunlight.

For a moment I breathe again.

For a moment I think I’m healed.

For a moment I think maybe I died.

But the light flickers like a candle caught in a wind.

And the harder things come.

I’m back in the doctor’s office.

Him.

His voice.

His hand.

Not touching me now but the memory touches me, cold as metal, like that dreadful chair with the expensive fabric he had, too big, too cold, I used to try to warm it as best as I could. His words stick to my skin the way glue feels when you can’t peel it all off.

Childhood logic flashes through me the kind that makes you think:

If I’m good enough, if I sit still enough, maybe bad things won’t happen.

The world looked at him; neat, polished, respected and said “we believe you,” and looked at me small, quiet, trembling and said nothing.

My pulse stutters.

Machines beep faster in the distance a sound that doesn’t match where I am.

Then…

The school.

That smell hits me first, over-waxed floors, old paper, the horrible cafeteria food, and the faint sting of bleach trying and failing to hide the scent of fear I carried around like a backpack. The scent of my own old clothes too; fabric that smelled faintly like our detergent, the cheap kind that never fully masked the scent of worn cotton. My belly aches the way it used to every morning, twisted so tight it felt like someone had tied a knot inside me while I slept.

People calling me freak.

Things flying at me; pencils, papers, someone’s eraser shaped like a heart that hit me right between the shoulders. My hair being pulled by the end of my ponytail, my body being pushed to end up in the stairs, those dirty stairs that probably were never cleaned. Lockers slamming like thunder. Footsteps of kids running, stomping, racing past me like I wasn’t there. Shaving cream stuffed in my bag ,white foam oozing like a mocking laughter. I can still smell it a bitter, chemical sharpness that clung to my books.

The boys laughing at my face, pointing at things I couldn’t change. The girls laughing at my clothes , my cheap ones, the ones Mom said “still have plenty of life in them,” even though their lives were mostly wrinkles and loose threads.

My backpack always felt too heavy with straps cutting into my shoulders, books dragging me down like anchors. I see myself throwing up in the bathroom, hugging the toilet like it was the only friend I had. Maybe if was thinner I could finally be accepted. I still can taste the acid and fear in my mouth.

The flicker of the buzzing fluorescent lights making the room tilt.

Then the night.

The police station.

Their bored eyes.

The way they leaned back in their chairs laughing like I was a kid telling ghost stories.

“Are you sure?” “Are you confused?” “Are you exaggerating?”

Me in my baggy light jeans and my green sweated, the one with the stretched-out sleeves I twisted until my fingers hurt.

Dismissed like smoke.

And I remember thinking:

If they don’t believe me, maybe I shouldn’t believe me either.

My chest caves.

My throat burns.

Then…

The rain at my grandfather’s funeral. Cold drops hitting the top of my head like little stones. The wheelchair empty this time. The casket too big sinking into the ground like the earth was reluctant to take him in. The air tasting like wet dirt and family drama.

I choke on the memory.

I try to breathe but grief comes before air.

And then the world shifts.

Not backward.

Not forward.

Up.

The light pulls like a tide.

My body falls away.

The pain loosens.

The voices blur.

I feel weightless lighter than I’ve ever felt. And I’m somewhere else. I don’t know if it’s Heaven.

But it feels like it.

The air has music in it soft, humming, like the universe is singing under its breath. It smells clean, like rain without the cold or flowers without the pollen. The colors glow, shifting gently like they’re breathing in time with my heartbeat. Under my bare feet, the ground feels warm, almost velvety, like stepping on sunlight.

My grandfather is standing.

Standing.

His bad leg straight.

No wheelchair in sight.

No tube in his nose.

Just him whole, young, glowing from the inside like someone who finally got to rest.

And beside him

a Presence.

Not harsh.

Not judging.

Not distant.

Just love.

Love shaped like a man with gentle eyes.

Jesus.

His presence feels like warmth on cold hands, like forgiveness sinking into your bones. There’s a scent around Him not perfume, not incense something like clean air after a storm and fresh bread and morning light. I know it instantly not because of any painting I’ve ever seen, but because looking at Him feels like someone opened every locked room inside me and let the light pour in. Like the moment you find a missing puzzle piece under the couch and everything suddenly makes sense.

My grandpa reaches for me.

I run to him feet light, body unbroken and when he hugs me, it feels like I finally remember what safety was supposed to be. His sweater feels warm and slightly scratchy, the same way it used to when I buried my face in it. He presses his palm to my face, and it’s warm.

Real.

So real I almost collapse.

“Ava,” he says, and his Italian accent wraps around my name like a blanket.

“My little bird… forgive yourself.”

I shake my head, tears spilling from eyes I didn’t know I had here.

“I can’t,” I whisper.

I sound so small.

“I keep trying. I keep failing.”

He smiles that same crooked grin he gave me every time I stepped on his breathing tube, the one that meant you hurt me a little, but I love you anyway.

“You’ve punished yourself long enough,” he says.

“It’s time to be happy. It’s time to be whole.”

Jesus steps closer, His gaze softer than breath. And something in me, something rusted and frightened starts to loosen. For a heartbeat just one I feel peace so deep it frightens me. Peace that feels like the end of a long song where the last note hangs in the air.

But then…

A pull.

Sharp. Urgent.

Like someone yanking me offstage before I say the wrong line.

My grandfather kisses my forehead.

Jesus nods once, like He’s giving permission I don’t understand.

And then the world tears open beneath me.

Voices surge back.

Pain slams into me.

Cold air floods my lungs.

A stranger’s voice shouts:

“She’s still with us! Move!”

And just like that, Heaven disappears behind me. But the words don’t.

My little bird Ava, forgive yourself.

Be happy.