19Hummingbird || Miss E
MOLLY
I don’t cryas I wheel my suitcase through the streets of Trois-Rivières, heading towards the bus station with the Maps app open on my phone. I don’t cry as I speak in garbled French to the counter attendant and get myself a ticket for the next bus back to Montreal. I don’t even cry as I stare out the window, watching the highway fly by, flanked by the same forests and fields JP and I passed not twenty-four hours ago.
No, I don’t cry. I’m not a girl who cries easily anymore.
When I step off the bus in Montreal, I don’t head home right away. I drag my suitcase along behind me, wandering through some quiet side streets in the Plateau. Everyone says this is the prettiest neighbourhood in Montreal. The houses all have quirky turrets and sculpted window frames painted in vibrant colours, rickety iron staircases spiraling up to the various units.
It’s also crawling with street art. I think that’s what drew me here today: the need to surround myself with something familiar, to get that old feeling of the city reaching out to say hello. I wander past some of my favourite murals, taking in the details of the brushstrokes, the carefully meditated use of colour, shadow, and light. I search for tags scrawled in alleyways and along the edges of high rises, their lines bold and defiant, scrawled in a hasty moment of impulse and courage.
I don’t spot the new hummingbird until I’m almost right underneath it, on a street lined with bare maple trees. The afternoon sunlight catches on the glass, making the tiny bird flash like a secret signal. I come to a stop in front of the street sign it’s attached to, staring up at the almost impossibly delicate glass beak dipping inside the red centre of the Montreal flower.
I stare for so long my hands start to go rigid with cold, even though they’re balled up in my coat pockets. I left my gloves in the hotel room.
I shiver, but I’m not ready to leave. I scan the street for somewhere to sit and spot a bench just across the road. There’s a girl about my age in a long coat and a cream-coloured head scarf sitting there, watching me watch the hummingbird. Normally I’d be embarrassed about being caught staring for so long. My mind would start reeling with worries about looking crazy, and I’d wheel my suitcase out of there as fast as I could.
Today I just cross the street and sit down next to her. Somehow, it isn’t awkward, but I still feel the need to speak.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, tipping my chin towards the street sign.
She nods. “I’ve been sitting her for awhile. You’re the first person who’s looked up at it.”
I let out a little laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me. They’re hard to spot, if you don’t know what you’re looking for. There are a few birds like that around the city.”
Another nod. “I know.”
“Are you...into street art?” I ask.
She grins. “Yeah, I guess you could say I am.”
“I just walked by that Five Eight mural. Do you know it? It’s the one with that girl looking up at the sky. She’s got this long hair, and there’s a neon sign...”
I trail off, realizing I might be gushing too much.
“I know it,” the girl replies. “I love the lighting in that one, the way it hits the side of her face. It’s like you can hear the neon buzzing.”
We launch into a full-on street art discussion after that. This girl knows her stuff. She doesn’t just recognize the pieces I describe; she can name the artists and their backgrounds, and lists off other paintings they’ve done. We move on from talking about Montreal artists and mention some of our favourites from abroad. We’ve got almost creepily similar tastes, and we both get sort of frantic with the excitement of finding someone who shares our enthusiasm.
“I think I like installations best, though,” I admit, gesturing back at the hummingbird. “It’s the way they turn ordinary things into art. They make you look at the world around you differently. Plus, there’s usually this...air of mystery around them. Like, how did someone evendothat? How do you just drill a hole in a street sign and not get caught?”
The girl shrugs. “You’re right; itismysterious. Why do you think they picked a hummingbird?”
“Hmm.”
I tap my chin while I think, and I realize it’s a habit I picked up from JP. I immediately drop my hand into my lap, doing my best to ignore the sudden shockwave of heartache that rattles through my chest.
“Well, aside from the whole flower thing, I guess maybe...because they’re fragile? It’s so unusual to see glass in street art, especially a breakable little ornament like that. Maybe that’s the point? To make people wonder at how delicate the piece is?”
“Maybe.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Hummingbirds aren’t just fragile, though. They’re amazingly strong. They have bigger flight muscles than any other bird, and they have one of the fastest metabolisms on the planet. When they migrate, they sometimes fly for twenty hours without stopping. They’re also extremely fierce. They’ll even attack things like blue jays or crows if they feel like they’re territory is threatened.”
I blink at her in surprise. “You...You sure know your hummingbird facts.”
She lets out a soft, musical-sounding laugh. “They’re my favourite bird. I like how they...defy expectations, you know?”
There’s a weird,Twilight Zonekind of feeling in the air now. I feel like my subconscious has just realized something and is waiting for the rest of my brain to catch up.
“I should get going,” the girl tells me. “It’s been really lovely talking to you. Really. I’m happy you noticed the piece.”
