Birds

  She was thinking, musing, obsessing....no, considering  birds, the wonder of birds from the chicken scratching for mites in the farmer's field to the ptarmigan flapping over the Alaskan tundra.

    Freedom--or simple necessity--those hard beaks and the impossibly soft down, the bird undergarments, protected by the miracle of feathers. Where did they come from? How did God think of creating birds, in all their wonder and majesty?

    She wanted to say something, wanted to make an offhand comment about the wonder of birds, but he stood at the window, hands not in his pockets for once, hands dangling limply at his sides. It was already a gray day, a gray sky day, possibly a depressing day, possible a sad and depressing day.

    She knew him well, too well, knew he hated being "cheered up," so she said nothing, but kept the image of the ptarmigan in her head, held it there waiting, just in case, when he turned to her, smiled(!) and said, "I was just thinking about. . . "

    "Birds?" she said.

    He laughed then, turned away from the window, and put his hands in both pockets. "Birds?"

    She nodded. "You make me think of birds," she said.

    "Any particular bird?"

    "Ptarmigan," she said quickly, without hesitating, without realizing the "p" was silent, puh-tar-mi-gan she had said. 

    "Thank you," he said, and smiled, grinned really, nearly laughed out loud as if she had given him exactly what he needed.

    She relaxed. "You're welcome," she said and meant it.

The Gift

    She heard them before she saw them, the gaggle of children pouring off the school bus, 4 of them, maybe 6, stair-step ages, 8, 9, 10--etc. In perfect synchronicity, laughing, dropping things--two of them dropped their backpacks at exactly the same moment, then kicked them with the same nonchalant kick, as if they were meant to be propelled by force rather than cinched tidily on each child's back.

    Well, nobody saw them, so what did it matter?

    But she saw them, saw the whole careless exchange, even saw a book--a book! slide out of a backpack into the gutter, the dry gutter, so she....or somebody...could be thankful for that. No rain for a month, no snow, and New Year's come and gone, not an icicle in sight, not a cloud--and now, not a child. The daily discharge of noise and chaos already subsiding, and it was quiet again.

    Too quiet.

    Awful quiet.

    She meant to think awfully quiet, but couldn't control her grammar these days, much less her thoughts.

    Quiet. That's what she wanted.

    And then the doorbell rang--insistently, one, two, three times.

    She grabbed her shawl, the long black one that covered most of her scars, yelled, "I'm coming!" Wanted to say, "Stop the damn ringing" when the bell sounded again.

    Couldn't get the sound of her voice out, but she got the door open, flung the door open, ready to yell, "What is it?" ....but only "What" escaped her mouth, and that not as loudly as she would like.

    "What?" (Too sharp this time.)

    "This," the boy whispered and opened his hand. "I think it's yours."

    "It" was a marble, a big marble, a ruby colored marble with silver swirls, the marble she hid from her brother in that same garden long ago, years ago when she had clear blue eyes, and maybe even the gentle smile this child wore.

    "NO," she said, already shouting No before she took in the existence of the marble, her jewel, my jewel, she'd called it. 

    The boy lurched back, rejected by the force of her voice, took a second step backwards when she reached for the marble. 

    "Thank you," she managed to say, raising her voice, her rasp.   

  

    "Thank you," she said again, took the marble, and closed the door, closed the door, didn't slam it.

    The marble fit in her hand like an old friend, a lost treasure, my ruby she had called it, my royal ruby. She sank into the chair by the door, bunched the shawl over her face, and wept.

Camping

Camping

Camping. She hated camping--zipped into her bed, her blanket her sleeping bag. Bagged, that's what she was when they went camping in 

"the great outdoors"

"close to nature"

"in the green and rolling hills"

...where there was nothing flat to stretch out on, to lie down on, to sleep, perchance to dream. No. Not going to happen.

But there she was. They were camping again, one of them happy, industrious, setting up the tent, hooking up the camp stove, boiling water for . . . who knows, but you always needed hot water at the ready.

She could go for a walk, pretend to immerse herself in nature which is what she did while he constructed their "home away from home," drove in the stakes, strung the what-ever-you-call-it...tarp? canopy? What was the word?

So she left, walked, found a path, saw a doe dart across the path, inches, really INCHES from her face, heard the chickadees calling to each other, "Supper is ready, " one seemed to promise the other, found a streak of trout lilies along a tiny stream, and felt fingers of wind in her hair. 

Really?

Well, of course the wind doesn't have fingers, "but that's what it felt like," she said when she got back, "Celestial fingers lifting each strand of hair and declaring it..."

 

"Beautiful?"

She blushed. "Well, it was wonderful."

He smiled, with relief, and handed her a glass, a plastic glass of wine. "Dinner is ready," he said.

"Thank you," she said, and meant it.