The bluebird

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too tough for him,

I say, stay in there, I’m not going

to let anybody see


—Charles Bukowski

After the death of my long-estranged father, a bluebird began visiting my windowsill. Sometimes we were nearly beak to nose through the glass. I thought he might be mistaking his reflection for another bird. But he wasn’t fighting. He was singing.

His visits were pure joy—little gifts of happiness when I sorely needed it. The cage of my heart slowly swung open. Now I’m grateful for light and—most of all—for love.

Angela Winter