the loon feather

there’s a beach by the cabin we have rented and we walk it together.

“ska vi gå till stranden?” he asks in the morning when we wake up in the white sheets and wood panelled bedroom. his hair is tousled and he smiles through the copper and hay coloured strands that make their place along his jaw. he has the same impossible hair that boys tend to have – where it feels so soft and silky. all my hair masks and oils and i could never.

we take cigarettes in our backpacks and morning coffee in our bellies. the day is gray and overcast, but beautiful. we find a large walking stick and use it along our way.

we explore the rocks and the tide pools. there’s moss and lichen, old trees and driftwood.

he finds a feather amongst the worn rocks, “look,” he says.

between two delicate fingers he holds a small feather to me. it is a wisp of black like campfire smoke caught impossibly in the hand of my new lover. he offers it like a sacred gift or a chapel offering, with reverence. i take the feather and notice the white circles. it’s from a loon.

i’ve never seen a feather from one before, even as a confirmed feather collector / bird enjoyer. i’ve only ever seen loons from afar or sweaty in my palm one the gold coloured one dollar coins of canadian currency. we call them “loonies”. i’ve heard them, too – the haunting call.

i’m touched by the gesture. he knows i like feathers, knows i like birds.

i ask him to bring me feathers from sweden and he brings me silver feather earrings.

he knows i like jewelry, too.

he laughs and looks out at the lake. the feather is in my hand, gently grasped like a breakable gift.

i study him. he’s beautiful, totally doesn’t know it or see it, but he is. he smiles a lot, laughing easily, and he’s all of these tiny things i wish i could be. he offers so much grace to people, he is objective, deeply logical, and incredibly swedish, this boy from the north.

he gives me feathers and labradorite and snail shells and chocolate and the kind of love that drives someone across the world just to walk on a beach and smoke cigarettes and look at feathers and bones.

i think about how i used to cut myself wide open for people, friends and lovers both, who wouldn’t cross the street for me, let alone board planes or look for feathers on overcast mornings.

he doesn’t ask for me to love him, but i do anyways.

i dance in the cabin later, to old pop music, singing into an antique hairbrush. he watches me, laughing.

i am happy.