Lilith, On Cardinal Lane

The road I grew up on had a house
 that rarely got sunlight.
A mossy little place swallowed in the shadow
of a tree so enormous
that it seemed to shield that home
from the outside world.
The other kids called it a witch place,
because children mistake dark for danger.
But I saw it as a misplaced cavern.

And I remember her,
the woman who lived inside that dusk.
Thin as a fence post, hair like straw in a storm,
and eyes that moved slow, as if she were looking
for something the rest of us couldn’t see.
I never saw her step off of her porch,
but she would be out there, watching us.
Watching me?

Was she “safe”, to a little boy?
Birds gathered, countless and chaotic.
Sparrows, crows, mourning doves,
they perched on the thousand branches
like a congregation,
waiting for seeds, or something.
They nested in the crooks of that monstrous tree,
followed her movements like she was
the only salvation in their shaded world.
I trusted their judgement, so I had no fear.

One morning, I found a dead bird in the road.
A small brown thing, still soft, still warm,
as if it had just fallen out of the nest.
The other kids wouldn’t touch it.
They said it was bad luck,
that it was because of her.
But I picked it up, I don’t know why.
I wasn’t sure enough, yet,
of the finality of death.
Maybe because I didn’t fit the mold either.
Maybe because I thought she might know
what to do with something that had fallen.

I carried it into her yard,
my hands cupped around it
like I was holding the last droplets
of water on earth.

She was on the porch, sweeping leaves
that never stopped falling.
When she saw me, she didn’t look surprised.
She just lowered the broom
and stepped out into the half‑light
as I held the bird out to her.
She looked down upon it, but didn’t take it.
Instead, she placed her hand under mine,
steadying the weight of it,
as if she were teaching me how to carry loss.
“It’s gone, it’s alright,” she said,
her voice calm but certain.
“Birds have no spirit, until
they learn to fly”.
Then she touched the young bird’s head
with one finger, a small stroke.
Not to revive it, more to bless it.

The living birds, within the branches,
all went silent. As if they were watching
a ritual they’d seen before.
She nodded once,
a small gesture that felt like
a door opening between us.
“Thank you for bringing it,” she said.
“Your empathy made you brave”.

I didn’t understand what she meant then.
But I felt it, that quiet recognition
between a strange old woman
and a dusty-shelf life little boy,
who already knew what it meant
to live outside the expected journeys.
~
Years later, I learned of the name Lilith.
Not the demon, not the seductress,
but the first woman who walked away
from a life that asked her to conform.

And I realized I had met her once,
with a yard full of birds,
in a house that didn’t want the sun.
And, the moment when she taught me
that some fallen things
aren’t meant to rise again.
But they’re still worth carrying
to someone who understands hope.

~~~