From Black Birds and Blackbirds

Straddled rooms,

resigned chambers,

damp cabinets,

awaiting quarters.

There is no borderline between black and white there. This is where
grey is a battlefield where father used to hit mother. The mother bore
it, because after that — he cried, begged for forgiveness, professed
his love to her. That's where I was whispering and you were shouting.
“You” — are a lot. But then it started to repeat again and again and
again and again, and it heightened. Father yelled that everything was
actually her fault (as it usually goes). Their first daughter was 2 to
7 then. There were always many blackbirds in their garden. Later, the
situation calmed down. Her father stopped.

Deep memory of their daughter remembered love (cause mum and dad do
mean “Love”) in inseparable connection with torment and blackbirds
which used to sing in the earliest morning when she was waking up to
his roaring.

She realized she could control her hearing so that her father's voice
(however close and loud) was weaker than the singing of the
blackbirds, distant and silent. At that time, she, of course, had no
idea what Hearing was; she knew that ears were for listening and eyes
were for looking and crying.

When she grew up, she decided to become an ornithologist. She has a
husband and two beautiful children, but she still misses something in
her life, because her husband — is good to her.

(Boris Ondreicka, from Black Birds and Blackbirds, 2010-2012 / the
Entoptic, image archive - ongoing since 2009)