Apr 2012
10
The tiny drab birds descended on my yard like smoke. I caught my breath, not because they were beautiful for they were dull and indiscernible from each other, but because on my inhale they were not there, and as I exhaled I saw them, hopping and flitting through the branches. I tried to find something for my eye to cling to so I could identify them later, but beak blended with wing and wing blended with the gray apple tree. I held my breath, willing them to stay a minute more, but the cloud of feather dissolved even as I focused on it. I stood staring at the absence of bird, remembering the book “A Wind in the Door” that I had read as a girl, remembering, in particular, the cherubim.
“They turned around, and they saw, there by the great rock –
wings, it seemed like hundreds of wings, spreading, folding, stretching –
and eyes
how many eyes can a drive of dragons have?
and small jets of flame …”
Yesterday I planted more seeds, breaking and scraping the soil that was dry and cracked from three consecutive days of warm breeze and sunshine. I lifted the layers of material that replaced the front lawn, pushing aside first mulch, then compost before I reached a thick layer of straw. I had to tear the warp and weave of this mat that was threaded with worms in order to create an opening for the lavender and strawberry. Ivan joined me, breaking open the dried marigold pods and sprinkling them across the dirt. Together, we’ve planted sugar snap peas, fennel, cilantro, California poppies and rocket. I like this list, which runs down the back cover of my writing notebook alongside the column I’ve created for birds spotted in the backyard.
I was at the bedroom window when the cloud of birds returned a second time, swirling around the edges of the juniper. This time I locked my eyes on them, noting the plump body, long tail and short beak. They were the color of a desert in winter. Confident I had enough to get out my bird book, I thumbed through the pictures of brown-and-gray birds until I saw the bushtit, a tiny knitter who weaves a nest from grass and spider web into the shape of a sock and hangs it among the branches of a tree: My birds had a name. Psaltriparus minimu Once again I was thinking of Madeleine L’Engle’s “A Wind in the Door.”
“Sandy got up and shut the door firmly. “You were gone long enough.”
“Did you count the stars or something?”
“We don’t have to count them,” Meg said. “They just need to be known by Name.” ‘
+
In that spirit, the beanie’s name is “Fortnight” a pattern by Brooklyn Tweed. It was knitted in Shelter’s “button jar” and “hayloft” yarn, a targhee-columbia wool. Ivan says it’s pretty nice and cozy.
I’ve been to Tennessee and back.
I pushed my way through warm air humming with bugs to stand at a muddy creek and watch cardinals chase each other through tree branches.
I sat in the clean silence of a Shaker museum.
I ate fried pies.
And fried catfish.
And fried corn.
I traveled alone, the first time in seven years. Oh my, that sounds so long, to have seven whole years pass since I was last responsible for no one but myself. I’d planned to write on the plane and fill pages as I traveled across the country, but I was too self-conscious to open my notebook.
My thoughts fluttered about me, drifted by like perfume, sweet but elusive.
Even after I arrived, I could not pin them down.
I’ve been to Tennessee to bless my niece, for I was was her godmother and it was my job to dry her off after her baptism and rub the sign of the cross onto her forehead with my thumb. But what I will remember is how her mouth was a tiny red butterfly and that she enjoyed chewing on the Sunday palms.
I’m back now, and it feels good, not as jarring this time.
Once again, I’m pushing my way through air that is cool and green.
I’m listening to updates on science projects and replays of missed soccer games.
I’m shouldering my half of the parenting responsibility and smiling at the sigh of relief from Marcel.
In my absence, the garlic has grown and mysterious mushrooms have sprung up between the shoots of wheat where my vegetable garden should be. Everything is okay.
ACT TWO:
TEN MINUTES OF TABLE CONVERSATION
FADE IN:
INT — DINING ROOM — EVENING
A family sits at the dinner table. The dad is at one end of the table. On either side of him are twin sons, SAM and MAX. The mom sits at the other end of the table, and on her left is older daughter, CHAJA. A younger son, IVAN, is playing off-stage. The meal is almost over.
MOM
(over sounds of IVAN playing off stage)
Now Max, why do you need to build a volcano for your science fair project?
MAX
(bending his head and mumbling into his plate)
To show how baking soda and vinegar will explode.
DAD
What? Speak up, Max. What does a volcano have to do with baking soda and vinegar?
MAX
(still speaking into his plate, but louder)
It looks cool, and last year a kid did it and he won an award.
MOM
(sending a look of help-me-out-here to DAD)
Couldn’t you use a cup and not mess around with the volcano?
MAX
(finally looking at his parents)
But it wouldn’t look cool.
DAD
(grinning at MOM)
So why a volcano and not a nose? Stuff could spew out of the nostrils.
(Laughter from ALL)
CHAJA
(from over her shoulder as she heads into the kitchen)
Yeah! You’d get a ton of votes.
SAM
Or you could build a penis.
(Hoots, followed by more laughter and red faces)
IVAN
(Off-stage, singing)
Penis! Penis! Penis!
DAD
Whoa! Now that would get you some attention, probably get you kicked out of the science fair and maybe even make it into the paper.
MAX
(grinning)
Yeah, I could build this giant penis and have –
MOM
O-kaaaay. No more! No more! The volcano’s fine. You can do the volcano, and I can see you boys have been paying attention in sex ed.
FADE TO BLACK.
My Life as a Screenplay, Act One: Five Minutes of Afternoon
