Proof

         A starry morning. 

    It had been a clear night, stars everywhere she looked, even when she went outside and lay on her back in the grass. It was cool, but she had dressed for the stars, long underwear from Calvin (no, not that Calvin), corduroys, then wind pants, a sweater, jacket, hat, the full winter outfit.

    So, she was warm and had lain there all night, sleeping and waking to see if the stars were still there. It was an experiment, a test, to see if the earth really moved, rotated, spun.

    Well, yes, she had to admit that something changed, moved....but was it the earth? The stars themselves?

    She had argued the point with Mr. P so many years ago, 8th grade science, physics with astronomy thrown in. "Because that's where science began on this spinning earth," according to Mr. P. "The whole universe rotates!"

    How could he know? Mr. P. a young first-year teacher, but he was so sure, the way men are, that she decided to test it.

    And now it was morning, 7:12 according to her smarter-than-you watch, 7:12 a.m. and the stars were leaving, blinking out, one by one, saying goodbye, farewell, proving Mr. P. right, she supposed. The stars did move. Or the earth? Or....?

    

    Ah! The engine of the universe moved, rotated, always, continuously, right now, and she had seen it, proven it to herself, which is what mattered the most. No need to mention it to Calvin.....or to anyone...

The Researcher

"Brewer's Blackbird--now there's a bird!"

"Meaning?"

"Well, look at it, standing tall, looking ahead, into the future, alert, stalwart."

"So?" 

He was excited, ready to drone on about a bird he'd never seen or heard of, the Bird a Day on the damn (sorry) Audubon calendar she'd given him for Christmas. She wouldn't make that mistake again. Yesterday, the American flamingo? She'd never heard of American flamingos, thought flamingos were more exotic, more foreign, but there they were in all their pink, bird-a-day glory--and as the weekend birds, so, of course, he talked of nothing else for two mornings in a row.

At least the Brewer's Blackbird was alone on the page, singular, and, from the look of it, (yes, she was forced to look at it), shy and embarrassed by all all the attention and, no doubt,  portrayed larger than life in the picture.

Well, she knew from experience that he'd soon wind down if she limited her response to an occasional nod, even as he continued to drone on about the odd name, Brewers, now wondering if the Brewers Blackbird was connected to brewing, to brews, was a bird that liked beer, that preferred beer over water!? 

"Now there's a bird!" he said, for the second time., and, predictably, wondered if it preferred an IPA over a stout...or, he said, "Probably a plain lager is good enough, do they even have tongues, a sense of taste..." and he was off, launched on his daily, deep dive into Google.

Brewer's Blackbird

Tis the Season

 

"We 

should 

get a tree

put up a tree."

"A tree? Why?" "Tis  

the season....almost 

the season.""Oh, that 

kind of tree, where we go 

into the woods, probably illegally

 because we don't own any woods, cut 

down a tree, a living tree that we have killed, 

a tree that will never grow another half inch, never 

have a bird nesting in its welcoming branches, never 

know the feel of a scampering squirrel ascending its heights, 

never . . . ""Point made. We'll get an artificial one instead.""Artificial! 

You mean a plastic tree. Do you have any idea how plastic is already 

suffocating our oceans, and you want a plastic tree!""Okay. Point made.

 So, let's 

just draw

 a tree.

 

Get a

 long roll of

 paper, compostable

paper," J says in a slightly (only slightly) 

louder voice, but still enthusiastic and hopeful.

 "We can tape ornaments, recycled ornaments, make 

paper chains to encircle it, create our own tradition, a tradition 

that will make our children proud.""But we don't have children," L says."

I know. That was just a figure of speech. I should have said, "Make those who 

come after us proud." J takes a breath, then a second breath, waiting, anticipating, 

L's response...scorn? speculation? relief? at the absence of children and L. is still quiet, 

which 

is unusual 

after one of 

J's statements. 

L 

stands 

there, smiling,

saying nothing as if J 

has made an obvious error, as if 

L knows something J doesn't, standing 

there with her hands on her waist, cradling 

her stomach, which J notices, might have a slight 

protrusion. L is waiting patiently now, unusually quiet, 

not holding up her end of the conversation, but smiling and

 her hands still holding  her stomach...or should he say uterus? J

 blushes, even stutters, "Are we . . . are you. . .? L nods."I vote for the 

paper tree, 

to, as you

 said, to make 

them proud."

All

    The wind blew all morning. She heard it in the trees, heard it unfold the shingles on the roof of the house, dropping them—flap, flap, flap. She heard it against the screen, saw the lines of snow splattered on the window, heard it sweep across the yard, saw it leave a vertical stripe of snow on the trunk of every tree trunk. It was an overwhelming, invisible presence--nothing was spared.

    She stood at the window with her back to the fire and watched the wind, smiled and watched. She was seeing something, watching something invisible, something that nobody could see, but was there, oh yes, it was there. 

    O wind, a-blowing all day long, she sang. "O wind, that sings so loud a song!"

    This wind held the trees, moved the whole trunk, not just the crown, and picked up snow from the frozen lake so by the time the wind reached her at the window, it was a screeching wall of white, a yowling wind, reveling in its very breath, the visible breath of its existence.

    “I felt you push, I heard you call,/I could not see yourself at all..."

    He didn't move, never glanced up from the crossword, never noticed that cosmic forces were shrieking for his attention.

    “It's a message from Jupiter,” she said, “or Uranus, one of the distant, frozen planets where ice and wind are everything. Look at it--it's the all!”

    “Awl?” he said, without looking up. “AWL--a pointed tool....just what I needed!”

    The wind tore off a branch of the ash tree and slammed it against the window. She couldn’t have said it better herself.

© 2024 Kathleen Coskran (citation from The Wind by Robert Louis Stevenson)

The Promise

     There is always light. It was his mother's favorite statement, her daily observation, her proclamation, her promise. He knew that, remembered it, even smiled at how annoying that daily, cheerful sentence could be when disappointment, loss, rejection was pulling him into the abyss his spirit seemed to favor.

    Maybe she knew that about him, the woman who had known him the longest, and who, he would admit only to himself, loved him the most. He'd have to agree that sometimes there was light, light to show the way, to illumine the potential, the hope, the promise, etc., etc., etc....but always?

    He called her Pollyanna when he was 17 and had just learned that word, the designation, the criticism of the perennial optimist. He'd been upset about...about...well, something, and she had said in the bright voice she'd perfected, "Well, tomorrow is another day, and there is always...."

    He'd stalked out before she could finish, maybe even slammed a door, which was made worse by the peal of laughter that followed him, that she knew he would hear.

    Well, it turned out she was right. All these years later, long after the weekly calls, the seasonal visits, long after the monthly letter in her perfect Palmer Method hand, long after she'd turned out the light and gone to her last good night, it turned out she was right.

    It was that promise, her promise, her words, that drew him to the window each morning. Eighty years old, alone, with a knee he couldn't depend on, hearing gone to hell, but his mother's words drew him to the window just as the sun rose and every day, winter, spring, summer, fall, there was light, always light--a new day beginning, and he was grateful.

    There is always light.

Morning Ritual

"Who names the birds?" It was one of her perennial questions, and he was used to it now, 25 years into what was already a long marriage, long in the sense of enduring. You make it sound like a punishment, she had said more than once when he bragged (his word) about their years together.

The daily Audubon calendar inspired unusually frequent conversations about the proliferation of birds in the world.

"King Penguins today," she said with a familiar incredulity coating each word. "Not Queen Penguin, Empress Penguin, no, it's KING Penguin... apparently for both genders." 

Her ability to speak in capital letters always impressed him. How did she do it? Well, he'd never ask, but he did wonder.

She tore the page off the calendar and held it up to the light--four stately birds--flightless birds, she would point out if he called them birds--how can they be birds if they can't fly? It was a logical question, one with an answer no doubt, but he didn't have time to google it.

The penguins were beautiful, photographed against a startling blue sky, all four of them stately creatures with heads held high, looking as majestic, as royal as any head of state he'd ever seen (which, of course, was none, at least none in person, but that was beside the point as he considered his response).

"Penguins are a miracle of creation," he began.

"Yes?" the sceptic said.

"As are you, as, even, am I. All of us alive, breathing, walking, talking..."

"...on this miraculous planet..."

"...we call Earth," he said, just as the coffee was ready and the thump of the morning paper hit their door.

Trump's return to world stage jolts global climate talks

    "Poor penguins," they said in unison.

Habit

    She peeled an orange for him every morning, a ritual she enjoyed, even looked forward to: the aroma of the citrus, the taut skin releasing under her fingernails, the hard, but pliable skin uncovering the soft curved fruit--every orange like every other orange, but different, individual, this orange sweeter--or more sour--than yesterday's, or juicier, or, inexplicably, too dry.

    "Good orange today," he said most days, well, every day. It was part of their ritual, their practice, their entry into the day. He made the coffee, she opened the orange, split it in half, and the morning began.

~

    But his question this morning stopped her. "Why do we do this?

    "What?"

    "No, I said why." He held up the naked, peeled orange, positioned it like a particularly valuable gem, or maybe an egg about to be boiled. "We do this every morning...but, why?"

    "Why?"

    "That's what I said, 'Why?'"

    "Easy to peel."

    "Well, yes, if you do it."

    "Habit." She knew that five-letter word would stop the questions, would elicit a harumph or swift sectioning of the apparently inexplicable existence of the morning orange. Habit! She knew he was dismissive of habits, of doing something, anything, that was predictable. Because of course, he was too thoughtful for habit, too considered, too smart. A thoughtful planner, not a slave of habit.

    Well, yes. He was a man with a deep sense of propriety, of purpose, of the well-executed plan, which he was now extolling in excruciating detail without realizing that his well-rehearsed monologue on the insufficiency of habit, blind habit, the knee-jerk quality of habit would mean that he was consuming his last pre-peeled orange. 

A Lesson

    The woman lost...to a man. Yes, of course she lost. But to a less competent man? Well, yes, that too. No surprise there.

    But to an unfit human being! That was the surprise, the shock, the incredulous finale to a season of lies, untruths, disrespect, name calling--the worst aspect of naked aggression, of win-at-all-costs....

    Happens all the time, and now it has happened again.

    She contemplated just staying in bed, turning off the phone, the radio, the clock, shutting it all down, rolling over and dreaming. Dreams were her comfort, her hope, her possibility. Not real--she knew that....but then she asked herself, what really is real? It's all a dream, this life is all a dream, here today, gone tomorrow--the insignificance of everything, and the deep significance of the same everything in the one, jumbled basket.

~

    Well, she sat up, finally sat up,  just as a bus rumbled past...ah, the buses are still running, and then she saw a squirrel, who, as far as she knew, never listened to the news,  saw the squirrel run to the end of a branch outside her window, bend it down almost to the ground before leaping off...and the branch snapped back.

    Snapped back? Just a branch, but a living branch, a branch forever attached to the same trunk, snapped back, lives, snaps back and offers a path to any squirrel brave enough to run its length.           The branch snaps back.

    There's a lesson there, she thought.  Something to know, to remember. Even a branch, a living branch, can snap back.

    Well, so can I, so can we....with damage and scars, but we can snap back, one moment following another, we can snap back.

    She threw back the quilt and got up: time to begin....something.

Resplendent Limits

 "Who names the birds? And why the Latin name in parenthesis? As if Pharomachrus mocinno was the real name, but we monolingual English speakers have to have it transcribed into something we can understand." 

    "But even then, there are problems or, at best, inequities. The aforementioned Ph-- Mo is, in fact, the Resplendent Quetzal. Well, there's a bird worth getting up for, worth walking to the window to gaze at in wonder, to tell your friends you saw and, in these days of a camera  in every pocket, to take a picture. And how did the obviously foreign Resplendent Q get to Minnesota? Not the bird itself, of course--too resplendent for ordinary folks like us. But even its existence--how do we know about it?"

"Well," she paused in her morning monologue, looked to see if he was listening. He was or, at least, appeared to be.

  "Well," she said, and turned the page of her Bird-a-Day calendar, "Well, it is followed by a normal bird, the Yellow-throated Warbler, a squat, plump species well-suited to northern climes and, no doubt, more comfortable on my desk. A bird we might actually encounter, get a glimpse of on a short walk, or, better, see on a hike in the woods. An ordinary, but pleasant, encounter."

"Hmmm," he said.

"But, the Resplendent Quetzal! That would be like drinking Chardonnay and eating chocolate torte (what really is a torte--just a fancy cake, right?)...eating a chocolate torte for breakfast, then feeling queazy for the rest of the day."

She paused.

He appeared to be listening, had lowered his tablet, maybe even turned it off, and was waiting.

"Well," she said. "We'll never see it. Probably foreign."

"Or worse yet, a migrant."

"Yikes! Obviously illegal," she said, and threw the Resplendent Q, now crumpled into a paper ball, at him. "Your problem now."

He caught it, did his practiced pantomime of eating and swallowing it, and they both went back to reading the news of the day.

Soul Mate

     We were friends, long-time friends, soul mates, sisters in friendship, blessed with proximity. I could see the light in her bedroom; she could see the glow from the fireplace in our living room. I heard her dad leave for work at 7:22 am every morning, exactly 7:22 am, not earlier, and never, ever later. I heard the roar of his Mustang (1965, pristine condition, not a scratch on it, etc., etc.), heard the solid slap of the garage door meeting the pavement, and the final squeal of his departure. Then it was quiet, and the whole neighborhood took a breath and relaxed.

    We never talked about her dad--or the weight of fear or . . . what is the word? the right word? Trepidation? The caution of living with, with what? Not exactly fear, but close: worry? anxiety? Even I knew that a wrong word or glance could set him off. We never talked about it. I couldn't, wouldn't. The contrast was too sharp, too painful--my dad was calm, quiet, sweet, and, I know now, shy...but hers?

    Well, we never talked about it.

    It was the light in her bedroom that I waited for each morning. It blinked on a minute after the departing roar of the Mustang, and then I knew she was up, getting dressed, brushing her teeth, the routine begun, and soon I would knock on her door--or she mine (our morning competition--who would be first.) Once we nearly collided, both of us sprinting to the other's door--then fell on the ground laughing at our near collision, at the synchronicity, at the unspoken competition to be first up, out, and at the other's door.

    That's how we became friends, best friends, best friends forever, even though she moved, then I did, both of us living somewhere else, but the old threads that bound us were strong, never broken, and kept us connected.

                                                               ~

    Well, now she's gone. It is so like her, to go first, to be the independent one, to open the door and, head held high, step through, final destination unknown.

    But her light still shines, and I now believe, no, I know, we will meet again. She will be glad to see me, as she always is, and will take particular delight in showing me around. I'll nod, follow her, and, eventually, forgive her for going first.