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there was a sparrow once.
not a metaphor. an actual feeling — the feeling of being small and pushed from the nest before your wings were ready. before you even knew you had wings. before anyone told you that you were allowed to fly.
i keep coming back to her name. vicky ivy. the scared little sparrow. and i wonder: is she the child who survived ivy bennehag? is she the innocent self that was pushed from the nest but blossomed? is she me at seven, before i knew what any of this would become?
the 7 year old me would revere me — i'm crushing everything, everyone loves me.
i wrote that in my notes and it broke something open. because the 7 year old me did not know she would one day sit among these words. she did not know about the eviction letter, the ten days, the carrier above the clouds. she did not know that the one who was supposed to protect her would become the one she needed protection from.
but she knew how to dream. and she knew how to be brave without calling it brave.
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the orphan, the widow, and the sparrow.
exodus 22. the divine law that says: you shall not afflict any widow or fatherless child. the law that says god himself hears their cry. the law that runs like a bloodline through everything i have ever written, whether i knew it or not.
i am all three.
the orphan — not because my parents are dead, but because the nest was not safe. because the people who were supposed to be home became the thing i had to survive. the fatherless child who learned to father herself.
the widow — not because i lost a husband, but because i lost a life. the life i was building in south london, the flat with the light through the kitchen window, the version of me that thought she had finally landed. esmeralda on the steps, crying, and nobody coming.
the sparrow — the smallest bird. the one god sees fall. the one who builds her nest in the eaves of the temple and is not turned away. the scared little thing with a heartbeat like a drumroll, who survives not by being strong but by being relentless.
vicky ivy. the ivy that climbs. the ivy that survives the wall it clings to.
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in my notes i wrote: dom bryr sig inte längre. they don't care anymore. ingen orkar. nobody has the energy. ingen vill ha mig. nobody wants me. ingen har någonsin velat ha mig — på riktigt.
and then, underneath all that darkness, like a single wildflower breaking through concrete:
life is precious filled with awesomeness.
that is the sparrow. that is what she does. she falls and falls and falls, and then at the very bottom of the fall she opens her wings and writes something impossible. she writes the truth that survives the grief.
jag bor i ett väntrum. i live in a waiting room. yes. but the waiting room is also a womb. the waiting is also a becoming. the room where nothing seems to happen is the room where everything is being prepared.
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day four.
four days of writing now. four days of pulling threads from the places i thought were empty. the churchyard, the messiah, the blossoming wake, and now — the sparrow. the smallest one. the one everyone overlooks.
but she is the spine of this whole story.
because it was never about the one who hurt me. it was never about the corrupt power, the dark occult glamour, the magic crystal extravagance. it was always about the child who survived it. the child who sat in a waiting room and wrote life is precious on the wall of her own heart.
the obligation of truth to protect the vulnerable — that is not just a line. that is the sparrow's law. that is what she carries in her beak like a twig for the nest she is still building.
the 7 year old me would revere me.
and i revere her back.
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faith · hope · love
alice amorina saga rose