by E.N. Estrada
Beloved,
I hope you are well.
Cluck cluck. Scritch. Scratch. Cluck cluck.
The sounds of chickens are everywhere, here. I sometimes watch them running about from my window, but they pay me no mind. The room I inhabit is on the top floor, and affords me a lovely image of the fields, of the cemetery, but the birds rarely meander into my view. I do not interest them the way food does, which I understand. To truly indulge, I must leave my room and round the corner of the Pink House before resting upon a bench. I am sorry to say this winds me. No improvement there. Still, their subtle perseverance in the small garden brings me comfort. Hope, even?
They are not many, only six. Hens, a mix of golden brown, white, and speckled. My hostess–you would like her–has named them the following:
Cluck
Jane
Rose
Goldie
Augustus
Meadow
I hope no foxes take interest in them this season–I believe that would devastate me. Beautiful things should never be destroyed in such a fashion. I also have my dear host’s word that these hens will not be eaten, which has greatly calmed my nerves.
I am sure you wonder about my recovery–I find it difficult to smile, of late. You would not believe how rarely my laugh is coaxed to the surface. There are mirrors here where I try to practice, but the smile trembles in the corners. I do not know if that is because I have become weaker, or if the burden simply weighs heaviest upon my lips. I grin when the chickens scurry about, though. Small, yet so fierce.
On a happier note, the Pink House has welcomed me, as we knew they would. My hostess is a kind soul, with the sharpest humor and wittiest retorts to my…rather reserved verbiage. We drink tea and discuss the chickens, the weather, politics, the chickens again. She has begun to feel like a sister. The chickens are our shared heart.
I realize, now, that this may have served more as a love letter to the monotonous beauty the Pink House chickens have provided to my retreat from polite society, but alas. I hope you see my love for you in my love for creatures. Although my body remains unwell, I am in good spirits. When you join me, I will introduce you to Rose (my favorite).
Yours,
Polly
E.N. Estrada writes about fleeting moments in nebulous time. She has yet to be called to works of any largess, preferring instead to indulge only her most fickle inspirations. In summary: she’s a bit pretentious, and well aware of it. She loves chickens, fiction, animals at large, and humanity–occasionally.