Jane walked slowly down the pedestrian side of the Williamsburg Bridge, the dewy mist kissing his eyelashes and enveloping him in its Californian embrace. The sparrow on his shoulder chirped with excitement, because this was the kind of weather the textbooks said was indigenous to the Pacific coast. Jane made his way home in a trance, thinking about angels doused in smog and woods of holly and Monica the saint.

He got to his building, rang his doorbell, and waited for his mom to open their burgundy door. She came to welcome him with a mug of green chai and a smile. His mom’s beauty had only intensified with age, and she was both mother and father to Jane. Their humble Brooklyn apartment was filled to the brim with love so ironlike that it withstood all pain from the past.

At nightfall, the sparrow came to Jane’s shoulder again.

“ You’re obsessed and depressed, you punk rocker, sweet talker, wanna-be fire walker, what is this life even for in the first place? It’s kind of like coffee, it leaves the single worst taste in your mouth in the morning, Janie, baby, this is a warning. If the wind pulls you west, you go west, because regret is a killer. She’ll gnaw at your conscience, she’ll be the heroine of your nightmares, you gotta kill her. John said it best- happiness is a warm gun.” With that, the sparrow perched on Jane’s bedpost and watched him think about what it said. Darkness was Jane’s confidante. It never judged his thoughts, just swallowed them whole without a word. He’d start thinking about that crazy little thing called the future, and he wouldn’t be able to stop. So on this night, like most other nights, he laid there, bundled up in his freshly washed sheets, thinking about how lucky he was to have such a pretty life, with such a warm, safe place to sleep, and such a mom. And then, inevitably he thought about what a disappointment he was, dreaming of escaping to California instead of staying and supporting his mom like she deserved. He slowly fell victim to a turbulent, dreamless sleep.

The days were all the same. Dawn would come and wake Jane, he went to school, his mom went to work, and then Dusk would come, bringing the sweet relief of slumber. The sparrow visited Jane often, during school, on his way home, and in the middle of the night. Sometimes, its’ presence was enough to stir up the longing that lurked somewhere deep beneath the acids in Jane’s belly. Sometimes, it spoke. “When we get to California, we’ll go all the way up the coast to see Seattle”, it told him, its’ little bird voice trembling with barely contained joy and anticipation. “ And on those unbearably hot days, we’ll chase the komorebi through the palm trees, and people will stare and we will laugh and they will shake their heads and we’ll be high on our freedom, so high that nothing else will matter.” Sometimes Jane believed the sparrow. But sometimes, the sound of his mom brewing her daily morning coffee or turning over in bed would drag him back to reality and his unparalleled love for her would chase away all thoughts of leaving. On these occasions, the sparrow grew jealous of Jane’s mom, because this particular little bird had only heard about love in the rock songs that blared out of the cars it flew by on the highway.

As winter inched closer and closer to Brooklyn, the sparrow became more and more desperate for the sun and the ocean, as did Jane. The sound of waves crashing on the beach constantly found its way into Jane’s head, as if someone was standing next to him pressing a conch shell to his ear everywhere he went. He knew California was a polluted labyrinth of suburbanites, overcrowded cities, and dusty little nowhere towns, but it was also a symbol; the first step in satisfying his hunger for a life not wasted. Christmas came and went without so much as a hello. January, February, March, April and Miss May few by, and then it was June. June 29th. Graduation. Nothing sentimental about it; for Jane, it was good riddance- the day he would break away from the sea of the strangers he knew as classmates. Weaving in and out of the crowd of aspiring professionals and plastic cliques, children that had already mapped out their whole picket-fence lives, Jane found his way to the stage. He got his diploma, and stood there for a second, in the midst of the fake carnations and beaming faculty, looking for his mom in the crowd. He finally saw her, and smiled at her little camera with the cracked screen and the delicate tears smearing her indigo mascara. The sparrow landed on his shoulder.

It was weak after enduring the winter months. Its’ birdsong had been ripped out of its’ throat by the frigid eastern winds. It was heartbroken and fragile and lonesome. But most of all, it was relieved and deliriously happy- Jane had finally finished school, he was free of his greatest responsibility, they could set off for the west coast maybe even this week, maybe even tomorrow! It stayed put on Jane’s shoulder as he made his way to his mom, so blinded by hope it could barely think straight. Jane took no notice of his feathered companion this time, even though he could hear its’ tiny heart beating happily by his ear. Mother and son exchanged looks, hers of pride, his of purpose and affection.

“Go”, she told him. “The road is yours. I’ll always be here. Have the kind of life people only talk about.” Jane looked into the forget-me-nots that were his mother’s eyes and saw his whole childhood in them, his whole world. Those eyes and the way she looked at him were the only proof that he mattered. How could he be so selfish, how could he be apart from this woman who gave him her life? “I’m never leaving this place”, he said, and the sparrow’s whole world shattered.

No one dug a grave for the tiny bird lying at the foot of the Williamsburg Bridge. No epitaph, no tears, no hole in the ground to call its’ own. Not even California came to claim her little dreamer. As for Jane, he grew up and got a steady job, a steady home, lived a steady, steady life, and took his last breath in his sleep at the ripe age of ninety-two. He made his mother proud. Say what you will, but if happiness really is a warm gun, that boy died one cold pistol.