by Sarah Scarcliff
My grandmother always loves bluebirds or birds of any kind, period. At her past house she keeps feeders in the front yard and back, watchable from any window. When my sister drives me by this house again after many years those feeders are gone as well as their branches. The sight is horrible. Either way I tear up. That is, I tear up if the house still looks the same or if it does not.
A house that lives in my mind these ten years and tears up.
She leaves the house because she moves into our basement. She moves into our basement because my mother worries about her health. Specifically, her shoulder pain, her weight gain, her ensuing difficulty breathing at night, and her irregular heartbeats.
The basement resembles the house (its inside) and smells like it. The portraits of my great grandmother line a wall, angelic and humble. What birds are here: a ceramic parakeet I bought her in Madrid, a female hummingbird outside, a stuffed chatterbox kookaburra on the couch.
When I visit home I fly downstairs. When she sees me she says A Little Birdie Told Me you’d be here today. She used to say this very thing to my mother. Her mother used to say it to her. It’s an expression of secrets: birds tell women things other women want kept hidden.
When my grandmother was little, she stole a tart from the local bakery, stashed it in her dress pocket. As soon as she arrived home, walked in the door. Her mother, sitting patient and waiting at the kitchen table, said that they were walking to the baker so that the girl could apologize.
How do you know what I did, mama?
How did you know I was on my way home?
Will you pray for me? she cries, mouth circular, serious. Old tear-drop shaped eyes. Lately I’ve felt so sad.
Yes, I say each time. Let’s pray now.
She holds out her two hands, I place mine there. Father God, please ease Ma’s heart. Please give her peace.
It always works when you do it.
I’m glad.
She is sad because her husband died fifteen years ago. What is baffling about life is that she never thought this would happen. If you believe for sixty years that your future is a certain way, and then it changes completely, you may be unable to adjust. She now leaves our basement less and less. She observes birds despite my father’s belief that her seeds ruin the grass.
I want to tell you something, she says. You need to find a man who will love you like your grandfather loved me. That’s what life is all about.
I smile when she says this. My mind, though, computes a hefty equation. Subtraction: I am content with my solitary life>I could add a man to it>he could die>I could be rocking in a rocking chair needing a capital jay to peck through wood for me.
What I do not desire is a house with one less man. Or a house with one less grandmother. A bird like a great big verb acts across. I’ll always hear her say this. A little bird told me so.
Sarah Scarcliff is a student at The University of Alabama studying English and Spanish. She is editor-in-chief of the literary arts magazine Marr’s Field Journal.