Wednesday 20 February 2013

The Birdman of Paris

To hurt is as human as to breathe. ~ J K Rowling
They call me l’homme oiseau de Paris, the birdman of Paris.  A child and her mother walk past; I hear them as they pass me, muttering that I am a lost cause.
“Only the birds are his friends.”  
I turn towards them, the pigeons  fluttering about with my every movement. I want to say that this is not madness it is grief. I open my mouth to speak but my words are incoherent. The mother puts a protective arm around her child, urging her to walk on.  “Don’t stare at him,” she scolds.
Does she not know that I can hear her hurtful words? I shrug. I too would not want my daughter near a vagrant like me.  The thought of my child brings forward that dull ache that is buried deep inside me.
This mother does not tell her child that I was once the happiest man in Paris.  Like you, little girl, I had a home. I had a family. Now the birds are my only solace.  But it is better out here with the birds. They don’t judge me.
The child averts her eyes from mine – oblivious to my pain she  scurries away.

About the photo: This photo was taken in Paris, just outside Pompidou Centre. There is nodoubt that the birds were enjoying his company.