He calls me every morning. Like a friend or a father just checking in. I hear him tweet as I’m making my bed and hurry to his perch, four stories above the crush of dump trucks and BMWs. He turns to me his one eye; his ruby headdress shimmers as we chat.  
 
I’m not sure if he’s asking me questions or gossiping or telling me everything will be all right but he speaks with his whole body; his feathers ruffle and settle, ruffle and settle. When he pauses, I mimic his warbles and chirps like I mimicked my infant son’s gurgles and coos. So many years ago.
 
At first, I thought he was lost. And needed a friend. Of course, I did. My habit of taking care of others is a reflex.
 
After seven mornings of banter, today I feel the responsibility of his presence and want to abdicate my role to something automatic, with less soul, maybe a finch call recording so that he doesn’t see my grizzled essence. I want him to see me the way my handyman or my landlord see me. Nice. Sweet.
 
I don’t want to reveal the me writhing on the carpet last night in grief and rage. 
 
Usually, I’m the one to leave him – to fix my tea, load the dishwasher. But this morning, after just one refrain, he wings to the hyacinth.
 
I imagine that he is kindly calling me out on my usual lazy bullshit dodge from intimacy.
 
Just like a true friend. Or a good father.

My voice seems to be changing. If you heard me, you might wonder if I’m recovering from laryngitis, if it hurts to talk.

It might be weak from disuse. I’ve always been more of a listener than a talker, all eyes and ears. But now that I live and work alone, some days I barely utter a paragraph.
 
I've always envied singers and actors who master their voices no matter how much they speak in a day. Words gush and seep from their whole bodies like molten lava. My words get tangled in my teeth.
 
I tried music in grade school, practicing hymns while strumming my guitar in my bedroom. At dinner one noon, with my four siblings snickering, my dad asked me to sing more quietly. I’m guessing he also was weary of Kumbaya. I rarely sang again.
 
I tried acting. When a group of parents congratulated me on my impassioned performance, my dad laughed, “That’s not acting. She yells at her brother like that every night.” I never acted again.
 
But I tried other roles. Forensics champion, epistle reader, college teacher, for crying out loud, I was a public relations executive and a CEO for years. Still my voice…    
 
As I write this, my throat is tighter than ever. I’m not sure if I need to cry or scream. With my whole body. 
 

There’s another reason I wear skirts. As a six-foot tall teen, no slacks were long enough and I developed a deep insecurity about pant length. My mom came to the rescue once and stitched me a pair of brushed-denim, baby-blue, hip-huggers. Before I die, I’d love to hold them just once more. And mom.     
 
Today, girls are taller, slacks are longer and I’m shrinking so I could wear slacks that graze my metatarsals. But I’m in the midst of a fashion tsunami which beckons me to choose high water slacks. Not cropped. Not capris. True high water. My current favorites are sweetly belled, black and white ginghams that I wear with patent leather brogues.
 
Mom would say, “Whose daughter are you?” and smile.
 

I bought my first recliner. You might not recognize it as a recliner unless you spied its electrical cord tethered to an outlet. It’s certainly not your typical squat, marshmallow Laz-Z-Boy. 
 
But for a lean, handsome thing, he was a little disruptive. It took time to absorb him into the clique of my other belongings. So one day, I shifted a rug, then a desk, then a fern. The next day, I discarded all things red. The next, I re-covered some pillows.
 
And voila, he’s not the center of attention anymore. Even though he’s the only chair that hums when I adjust him.

 
I like heart conversations – conversations that ultimately lead to connection – even if they’re only 10-minute sojourns, even if we’ll never meet again.
 
But that’s a tall order for an introvert. So I’m always on the lookout for new ways to dive deep and quick into conversation. A fellow attendee at a Milwaukee Art Museum lecture suggested that we find a way to ask, “What do you collect?”
 
Here’s how it could go with you, the introvert, using fewer than 10 words as you study a painting at a gallery opening or admire a gold-rimmed tea cup set at a party:
 
"What do you collect?"  Hmmm. What do I collect? Birds. Yes, birds.
"Birds?" Painted images of birds. Images in thread. Tin sculptures. Porcelain. Iron.
"What got you started?" My mom liked birds. She died a few months ago and it helps me stay connected with her.
 
BAM! A heart conversation begun. Ultimately, the person probably will ask you what you collect and a connection takes root.