Revisiting "The Birds We Couldn't Fix" (Patreon)

Jim Henry and I recently rebooted the alphabet theme for our livestream series because we enjoyed it so much the first time around—and because we wanted a challenge.

So in preparation for May’s “B” songs show, I revisited “Birds We Couldn’t Fix,” a song I started for the 2021 RealWomenRealSongs project. I recall that not too long after venues opened up again, I tried playing the song out and knew, almost immediately, that it wasn’t ready for prime-time. It’s been banging around in my mental periphery ever since.

My plan a couple weeks ago was to crack it open and sort it out in time for the livestream. But after several days obsessing over it, I came away with more questions than answers. And, sadly, no finished version to share.

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It all starts with the crow. Little brother and I were taking the long way to school along Muirlands, the "busy" street, when we found a giant black bird in the gutter. I don't remember whether there was blood, but he was broken, broken but breathing. He let us pick him up. We set him in the ivy along the sidewalk and were thrilled to find he was still alive when we returned after school, this time with a trail of kids behind us who didn't believe our story. My brother carried the crow home in his heavy jacket, arms out like a forklift. What a solemn parade we kids made, all the way to our front porch.

I’d wanted to write about that old, dear bird for as long as I’ve been trying to write songs.

The prompt for the song was “cradle.” So this is where the song started, with the gesture of carrying. But time and my mind being what they are, the song quickly took on a whole host of unresolved emotional touchstones and relationships. Family. A half a dozen other wild birds. Failed relationships and children I never had. Even the January 6 insurrection. It’s practically an Advent calendar of grief, memory, and loss.

The song also contains lies. Mother didn’t hold the sparrow or the waxwing; I did. That was my glove, my chest, my prayer. Why did I ascribe those gestures of care—and those failures—to her?

Now, she was there for the crow. When we got home, we laid it on the cool concrete and called for Mom because we were certain Mom would know what to do. She came with a turkey baster half-full of water and as we knelt around, she gently put a drop or two on the side of its beak. It took the water, and then its head dropped onto the jacket, slack.

Gone.

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Part of the challenge in revisiting an old song is that you can’t go back to only knowing what you knew when you started it. In January 2021, everything was different. The pandemic was raging. We weren’t aware Mother had cancer. A dear friend didn’t know his belly pain was pancreatic cancer taking hold.

Five years and two bedside vigils later, they’re both gone.

Cats I’ve loved have died.

Fans, too.

And I see it plainly now: all I can do is attend. I can’t fix or save anyone. But I can love. I can love a thing all the way through. I’ve always known how to do that. Maybe that’s all any of us is here to do.

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I don’t know when or how I’ll finish this song, but you’ll be the first to hear it when I do. Till then, here’s the original recording of a song trying really hard to be a cradle for, well, lots of things that hurt, I guess. I'm sharing it not because it’s finished, but precisely because it isn’t.

Thanks, as always, for accompanying me on the journey, and for loving me through in all the glorious ways you do. xotgEditor's note: If the title wasn’t enough of a clue, this post has been revised approximately 47 times. And now the crow flies from the concrete...