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By Tim Huff
He delivered department store flyers for months so he
could buy the small bird and the white wire cage. It was made clear that
the only way he could have a pet was if he paid for it – and if it
was small enough that he could take care of it himself. He did. It was.
Elliot – just 14 years old. A small 14 at that.
I saw him sitting there at nine o’clock in the morning, on the
cracked curbside of the Bay Street bus terminal – the bus dock
for passenger coaches that wander all across the nation. I was suspicious:
no adults were near, and his body language told me he was carrying the
weight of the world on his very young, very slight shoulders.
I spent my morning easing down the alleyways parallel
to the artsy Queen Street strip, chatting with graffiti artists as they
made colourful life statements on private and public property. At noon, I
purposefully wound my way back to the depot. Sure enough, there he was. He
hadn’t moved.
He was dressed in summer clothing that looked worn,
but clean. Tidy, the way kids often look when raised by a mom who
doesn’t have much, but does her very best. I stood off to the side,
among the busy travellers, uncertain of what to do. The fear of bringing him fear, imposing on every
jerky step I tried to initiate. Reluctantly, I finally convinced myself
just to move forward, and trust God to fill in the blanks.
So I did. I sat beside him nonchalantly. Not too
close, but near enough that he might guess that it was a purposeful choice.
But, what to say? “Can I help you?”. . .
“Are you lost?”. . . “Are you alone?”
None of them would have been right. None of them would
have been safe. All of them classic introductions made by street predators
hunting for naïve and nervous girls and boys who step off out-of-town
buses all alone.
I looked at him and smiled. “Hey, can I call
someone for you?”
He looked up. His chin quivered and his little red
eyes filled with tears. Without a moment’s hesitation, he nodded
eagerly, “My mom.” He was simply all out of bravery. He had
used it all up just to make it this far.
The lowdown was simple and sad. Mom and dad had
recently divorced. Very messy. Very painful. Lots of getting hurt, and lots
of giving hurt. School year with mom, summer with dad. Mom’s not
doing too well on her own. Dad is doing even worse.
And so, the first day of summer looked like this for
Elliot:
Dad to be home at five o’clock. Dad’s not
home at five o’clock. Elliot waits. Six o’clock. Seven
o’clock. Eight o’clock. Midnight. Waiting. Sitting at the
kitchen table, whistling back at his only companion, between the vertical
wires framing the small cage. The bird he had worked and saved for. Elliot
wanted to show his dad two things. His new little feathered friend, and his
report card. A’s! All A’s. A very bright boy.
Finally dad stumbled in, drunk and angry. Yet somehow
one tiny sound reigned over the slamming of doors, slurred curses and a
little boy trying to vanish. Repeating semitones from a little cage,
Elliot’s wee bird was just too loud – “too damn
loud.” And a frightened boy, who should have been dreaming of all the
fun things a young boy dreams about the day school lets out for the summer,
watched his sloppy, raging dad reach into the small white cage on the
kitchen table, take out the chirping bird, and crush it in his large dirty
hands.
Elliot sheepishly told me his phone number for
“home.” Home – where mom is.
And I called mom. “Elliot is here. He has been
here since shortly after midnight.” Mom was in rough shape, but
clearly she loved her little boy. Her only dear child. Besides the
desperation and sorrow in mom’s voice, it was filled with love and
embarrassment. Mom and I worked it out – a good plan, a simple plan,
a trusting plan on everyone’s part. One that found Elliot on the next
bus home. Mom’s home. Mom’s safe and loving home. “For
good,” I was told. Who knows? Still, it was one life the street did
not steal that day.
Time and time again, this is how it goes. There is
always that final thing – sometimes big, sometimes small,
always deep and weighty – that forces a tender heart and young mind
to unite and be decisive that this is the time to run. One night on the
streets is always proof that a second night is not impossible. And
that’s proof that a third isn’t. You meet other kids who
understand your pain. Kids, it seems, who are there for all the same
reasons as you, born out of the cutting and ugly details uniquely their
own. You stay. The street wins. Hundreds and thousands of them as minutes
become days, days are lost into seasons, and seasons are churned into
years.
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But not on this day! On this day there was just enough
time for a street vendor’s meal and a quick chat before
Elliot’s bus came and went. I told him who I was, and he told me who
he was. A good talk. A safe talk. Safe, only because Elliot had already
heard his own mom’s promising and loving voice telling him it was so.
His bus pulled up and stopped with a jolt. The coach
doors opened with a dramatic hydraulic gasp. But each small step in the
boarding line carried the hesitation of something still left to say. And
then, a boy struggling to understand the ridiculous nuances of love and
fear spun around with a question in the final moments.
“Will my bird go to heaven?”
His eyes widened and shoulders curled in, waiting in
anticipation for the answer he longed to hear.
As wishy-washy as it may seem, it is in times like
these that one leans into the theology of those who say what you want to
hear: the likes of Albert Schweitzer, Martin Luther, John Wesley, Pope John
Paul II – and of course, St. Francis of Assisi. All supporters of the
belief that animals have both souls and a place in heaven.
The hopeful quiver in his cracking voice owned me.
“Yes, I think so,” I answered, truly believing with all of my
heart that if even just one bird from earth gets there, surely this has got
to be the one.
The simple answer found the centre of Elliot’s
heart – and while holding the line at a standstill, he shocked me. He
carefully reached into the pocket of his khaki shorts. Elliot pulled out a
red and white bandana, rolled neatly into a tight ball, and handed it to me
gently. I stepped towards him and unfolded the corners. Inside was the
quiet body of a tiny blue and yellow bird.
“Will you bury him somewhere nice?” he
whispered.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I fought to keep a
confident smile in honour of Elliot’s remarkable courage. I nodded.
“Yes. Yes, I will,” I promised.
Less than a kilometre east of the playful greens of
Sunnyside Park, just off the boardwalk that curves along the shoreline
facing Toronto’s famous skyline – and beneath a blanket of
smooth white stones – are the remains of a beautiful tiny bird. A
bird that will never be forgotten. An innocent bird. Peaceful. So very
special. Once loved, and forever remembered. A lucky bird! A lucky bird to
have been cherished by a boy blessed with the courage to live, love and
hope – against all odds.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul.
And sings the tune
Without words
And never stops at all.
— Emily Dickinson
Tim Huff has spent 20 years befriending homeless
and street-involved people in Toronto. He is the author of Bent Hope: a street journal (Castle
Quay, 2008), from which this article is reprinted; and the children’s
book The Cardboard Shack Beneath the Bridge. See ‘Bearing witness,’ page 56.
Options Spring 2009
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