Birdsong
One disturbing thing about listening to a language you do not know is that there are no pauses. The sounds go on until they suddenly stop. There are no distinct words. No chunks of meaning. Nothing on which to hang your understanding. People speak and respond in one long birdsong. You just listen in awe.
This is how I sat in a room when I was six years old. Palms pressed into a dusty grey carpet. Surrounded by new classmates and yet another teacher. Facing a language that didn’t—couldn’t—reach me. It would take time. That’s what my mother told me. And, until I could manage on my own, she’d be there. One safe point was all I needed to brave the world.
For weeks and months, my mother joined me on that foreign carpet. Sat with me on the classroom’s tired wooden benches. My personal translator: she told me what the birdsong meant.
It has been a year since my mother died. Meanwhile, Sarah’s due date is in two weeks. There are times when the pain seeps in and discolors the joy. Mom will never meet her grandchild. My child will never be able to turn to her like I did.
Sarah and I have no intention of moving abroad. But every child needs a translator. In two weeks, it is my turn. My mother showed me the way. Wherever my child goes, I’ll be there to explain. Whatever twitters; anything that chirps.
Steven R. Kraaijeveld is a Dutch philosopher, ethicist, and writer who grew up in Czechia, China, and the Philippines. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in ANMLY, Epiphany, L’Esprit Literary Review, Massachusetts Review, Maudlin House, and MoonPark Review. He was a finalist in Fugue’s 2025 Prose Contest. Find out more about him on Instagram @esarkaye or through his website, stevenrkraaijeveld.com.
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