What to do when a bird gets stuck in your house

Kind of lost my shit today at work, staring at a box on the screen, reading the words sent over an ocean as reality sunk in.  Lourd.  That’s how I feel.  Heavy and sad.  My whole concept of the country is now different; when I travel to my “second home,” by best friend will no longer be right down the street.  No more moto rides across humid nights, palm wine I probably shouldn’t drink, marveling at his ever-pregnant wife’s expanding belly and secretly hoping it’s a girl this time.

This is silly, indulgent.  No one is dying.  He is moving to another town, took on a position that will likely pay him more than we ever did.  Even now, I know, this reaction seems overblown.  This is simply the end of a chapter, one of so many that preceded it, but still.  Il y aura une vide, I say in my bad French.  Il n’y a personne comme toi.  He responds, the words stringing together in a line that crosses the Atlantic, gently.  Please, I will cry.  In English.

I stop, hands resting on the edge of my desk, thinking how much easier it is to be brave across time zones.  Or maybe it just makes it easier to not have to admit: I’m already crying.