Untitled
The tiny flying creature steadily dropped in altitude even though its dainty wings frantically moved up and down. With its forward momentum in high gear, the spastic little thing veered to the left and then landed on the glass-top table set in the corner near the door. Its saucer eyes looked startled, amazed at its luck. So disoriented was it that it didn’t make a sound as it strutted from one corner of the table to the other, blinking, trying to gather up its poise in the Vietnamese noodle shop I was eating at. The shop was run by two small, frail women, one of whom loved singing over the repetitive choruses of radio heartbreak with her full, raspy voice.
Having noticed that the fledgling bird had dropped to the floor and was hopping around aimlessly, the two old ladies rushed to the front of the shop, their sandals sliding across the floor. The bird let out a scared yelp and a few grinding chirps at their imminent approach. The song lady hurriedly closed the door while the gentler, more cautious lady squatted and deftly moved the chairs out of the way to close in on the bird. The song lady snapped encouragement at the crouching lady to quickly get a handle on the bird. But after a few hapless moments of grabbing and squawking the dumb bird took off into the air and flew right at me. Its ashen black body brushed within inches of my arm just as I had gulped down the last bite of noodles.
Those two old crows scampered to where the tired, harassed bird had landed. I heard commands being given and then a trumpeted squawk for help. Finally, the song woman shrieked joyfully with victory. Her flat sandals slapped the linoleum as she slowly made her way to where I was sitting. I had finished eating and was sipping the requisite yellow tea. She came close to me, and faced me, the pleasant smells of sweet broth and mint emanated from her clothes, her hair and her hands. Her thin fingers were wrapped around the small bird so carefully, like twine tied around a faraway Christmas package. She pushed the feathered creature into my view and smiled, expecting acknowledgement. "Now let the bird go," I thought to myself. "That’s what you should do." But the old proprietor was deep in the moment; she just kept stroking the weak, docile bird’s feathers, and grinned, as if time could stand on its head and she would never notice the world growing dim, and then completely black. "A baby," I finally said. "Yeah," she agreed. "Uh bibee."
Share this article:
Current issue | Back issues | About us | Our staff | Submission guidelines | Cool links | RSS
©
2000-2009 Meniscus Magazine << admin @ meniscuszine.com >
