the birds

I step outside to steal some of their effervescence – the birds – with their happy mouths chorusing “life!” “living!” “life!”
I listen with envy. 
I can’t imagine feeling that way: facing the sun, shouting about joy and pleasure 
I’m mostly indoors, chirping my own chorus: Zoom, laundry, “Don’t forget to take your collagen.” That’s what I’m doing and thinking. 
I'm made dusty by my smallness. 
I toss a damp clod of laundry into the dryer and make a bad attempt at scooping debris from the lint trap, and I think of my Mother. What was she doing at this age? What were her days like? Were they harder or easier? More fulfilling?
I picture her in colorful 90s garb, wiping my newly born ass that would never stop shitting, or at least that’s what my dad used to tell me, reciting the story way past the point when it was appropriate (no 17-year-old wants to hear that about themselves). “You never stopped pooping, it was crazy. We'd change you, and you’d poop again,” he’d laugh, eyes glossy with remembrance
Me, trapped in the situation, eyes glossy with embarrassment, imagining my gross, baby bodily functions and my young parents cleaning it all up. 
They often used “accident” to describe my coming to be – which sounds better than the true word: “mistake.” Potato potato, I suppose. But hearing the former makes me feel less guilty about appearing out of nowhere, adding more responsibility and fatigue to their days. 
I don’t know how they raised two children because I’m fatigued by the smallest things, unable to conjure any emotion besides dread. My depression is a maw — like a fly trap or a dog's foaming, multicolored mouth.
Most days, I don’t know what’s harder: doing what I’m supposed to or having to be pleasant while doing it. Quiet and agreeable, funny in a safe way. I'm always trying not to rumple the waters of my husband's placid thoughts—trying not to give him a start. I don't want him to have to think about things. It's my wifely duty to keep the hum in his head upbeat and jazzy, reggae-infused – not deep and heavy and bluesy.
So I play along
How’re you doing? I say, “GOOD!” And so on and so forth.
My hobbies and morning coffee are thought to be substitutes for safety, comfort, purpose  
And so is the daily pill that I wash down with Mountain Dew (with an added dollop of collagen powder). The green liquid goes all soapy and wrong from the scoop of collagen — the chemistry now amiss. 
I take my sloshing cup and stand outside and listen to the birds. 
I try to stay present for them, listen to every part of their song and not get distracted by notifications
I can’t see them but I hear them loud and clear. Their chirps are so pretty, like a penny clinking in a water fountain. Everything all shiny and gorgeous, singing “life!” “living!” “life!”

— M