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.