church

walking with my son in his stroller, we'd end up in these places. a stained glass shop ~ though all glass is stained. all windows; once the first person looks through them - their vision, their slant-perspective leaves its slight imprint there. it can't be seen, save that it effects the next eyes that gaze through it - a phantom set across your focus. old windows are extremely haunted. when you look through them, its like having a cameo role in someone else's dream.

an old man owned this shop. i'd walked by it before and the open sign had been turned out, but so had the lights. this day, his door was open. a warm day. the shop was no bigger than a bedroom and the building sat alone on a corner across the street from a closed school. these details seem important. one of his arms hung by his side, no longer acknowledged or acknowledging the rest of his body. his hand, a clump of gnarled roots in gentle sway while he leaned over a table cutting glass. it hung there like a weight - a ballast to steady him while with quick precision, his other hand, lively and keened, worked.

his place wasn't set up for browsing shoppers. he mostly did commission word for churches or homeowners that wanted a special window. he asked if he could help me or if i was just 'window shopping'. i laughed and told him i'd just been by his place several times, walking with my little boy and i'd seen the door open, so ... he told me i was welcome to have a look around. that was literally about all i could do. the room was so full of boxes and tables and tools, i just stood beside the stroller and turned in a slow circle. colored glass everywhere - a few photos pinned to a cork board by his work bench - an empty bird cage without a door. 'did you have a bird?'

he followed my gaze and smiled. "oh. huh. that. no no. i love birds alright. but you can tell that on account the cage is empty." he chuckled and went on talking about birds. he knew the names of hundreds of them; mostly so he'd have a way to locate all the different songs which occupied his own throat: "... this is a grouse - a sheerwater - a prion - a hammerkop - a limpkin - a crake ..." and on and on the songs came forth. i'd wandered into an aviary of glowing, deferred light and glass.

my son slept in the swoon of this lullaby while i listened to his song. it seemed he knew them all. every bird and its voice. he knew them like words; family names or colors or grocery items. and each song held as much meaning as that; as separate words with their histories fading and renewed. a living language in undefended conversion.