The last Melody (In Style Of John Green, I Hope.)

Write a post about any topic you want, but in the style of an author or a blogger you admire.

The Daily Post

I woke up at ten o’clock, which was rather peculiar, for my usual extra-late wake up time.I tried to fall asleep again, but I couldn’t. So I decided to get out of bed and drink some water.
On my way to the kitchen, I passed the balcony and noticed my canary, Huste, a Spanish word that referred to a group of armed men under the command of a prelate. I named him so after a movie I saw last year right before I got him, the movie was epic.

I walked up to him, he was standing on the perch in his red cage, he looked very yellow against his red cage. The sun reflecting it’s light on his bright silky feathers. He was beautiful.

“Huste.” I said. “Good morning.”

He didn’t look at me, instead, he kept looking high in the sky. Waiting.

“Huste, Are you okay?” I asked, he didn’t reply. Of course he didn’t reply he was a bird.

A swift sound passed by, it was so soft and smooth, then it became louder and more vibrant. I looked up, towards the direction of the sound, and I saw it. A beautiful white canary, singing and flying, right where Huste was staring.
It sung, to Huste I think, it circled above him, and kept producing these beautiful sounds. And Huste sang back, beautiful melodies I’m sure I’ve never heard from him before, but they sounded familiar. And then he walked up to the pillars of the cage, and picked it with his peak. It kept singing to him. And he could only sing back.

I immediately thought of the Maya Angelou poem Caged Bird. It says:

A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind   
and floats downstream   
till the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

 

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and   
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

 

The caged bird sings   
with a fearful trill   
of things unknown   
but longed for still   
and his tune is heard   
on the distant hill   
for the caged bird   
sings of freedom.

 

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn
and he names the sky his own

 

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams   
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream   
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied   
so he opens his throat to sing.

 

The caged bird sings   
with a fearful trill   
of things unknown   
but longed for still   
and his tune is heard   
on the distant hill   
for the caged bird   
sings of freedom.
I had never taken that poem seriously, until now.
I didn’t know if that was the truth but I could imagine a story, starring Huste and The White Canary.
Everyday The White Canary would come to Huste in the early morning, they would sing, it would comfort him, tell him that this is not forever, telling him that it’s okay. Their melodies would keep me asleep till late.
But today, White Canary was late, and therefore, I woke up early, troubled. And that is also why, Huste didn’t reply when I called on him. He was waiting for her, afraid she had forgotten him, and that he would be alone again, this time for good.
I got up from the chair, I opened his cage door, and slipped my hand inside, Huste hopped on my forefinger, I pulled him out, White Canary kept on circling us, still singing.
“Be safe Huste.” I whispered. “I hope this is what you want.”
I spread my arm and Huste flew off into the sky, a little shaky at first, White Canary supported him a little until he was balanced alright. He turned around and flew over me, singing one last melody, soft and clear.
He flew off with White Canary until I couldn’t see them anymore.
I still don’t know if that was the right thing to do, maybe my story was wrong, maybe there was another thing. But I did what I thought was right. And what really comforts me is, I sleep till late again. And when I wake up, I could swear I hear Huste’s last melody.
I pray he names the sky his own.
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Please, give it to me my darlings.

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