Pigeon
2002-11-20 - 5:53 p.m.

We were wandering around cold and dingy Kings Cross Station, waiting for the last train back up to the other end of the country.

Our feet were aching, our noses reddened by the brisk wind. Finally, we gave in and bought coffee, mostly to keep our hands warm until the train finally pulled in and we could board.

I didn't notice at first, because there were so many of them.. But there, amongst the dozens of pigeons chasing nearly invisible specks of food, was one with a shrivelled foot.

It hopped along after the others, hopeful that there would be some morsel that they had overlooked. Always too slow. Always too afraid of attracting their attention or being chased away.

I carefully stood my coffee on top of a nearby trash can, and followed the pecking birds at a distance. The crippled one hopped along, amongst them, but somehow isolated.

I remember feeling vaguely bitter and almost frantic with the knowledge that I couldn't make it better. Why couldn't I just touch it and make it better? Or take it to someone who could? I couldn't bear it.

My mother watched me with an expression that I couldn't quite place, but I could tell that she knew exactly what was bothering me.

"You were always like this," she said quietly. " We tried to change you, but it's just how you are."

I didn't know whether to be irritated by her acceptance of things or to agree with her. Sometimes, it's better not to notice.

She agreed to keep an eye on the bird while I shuffled back to the coffee stand, careful not to spook the flock. Reaching under my pea coat, I dug in my jeans pocket with frozen fingers until I found three pound coins. The metal was warm from being so close to my skin.

I bought three fat muffins, and I remember that one was toffee and another blueberry. Maybe the last was chocolate chip.. I can't quite recall. I do remember wondering if pigeons liked blueberries and couldn't find any reason why not.

I hurried back, and broke the muffins into tiny pieces with fingers that trembled. I flung the fluffiest, biggest chunks to the hopping bird and watched through teary eyes as it hurriedly gobbled them up.

Several times, it peered up at me through it's tiny eyes and hopped closer. I kept on throwing down the crumbs until I had nothing left to give. I would have gone and bought more, but the train arrived and all the way home I wondered and worried about the pigeon with the shrivelled up foot.

As I was letting myself into my apartment, I thought, "At least it can fly."

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