"Always a Story"

Short essay; themes: family, death, birds, magic, flash fiction, falcons, CNF, grandparents, fear, support, last chances, Ohio

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Original title: “Columbus, Ohio.” Narrative Magazine.

Photo by Delaney Van

Always a Story

© Jen Knox

When Grandpa’s unable to move, he yells at my grandmother, and she yells at my mother. The residue of this yelling sticks to Mom so to lessen it I make her house look nice.

Rain taps away at the roof as I wait on Mom's porch. She's a little later than usual. She hugs me, cups my face, and says, “Thank you for being here.” I follow her inside and wait for the story—there's always a story.

“Yesterday,” she begins, with a touch of drama, “I had a spiritual experience with a bird.”

“Mom, you're not on anything, are you?"

“Sit, sit. Listen.”

The phone rings, and Mom rushes to answer it. I'm left thinking about the last time I hugged Grandpa Homer and how his skin was cool.

“Sorry, Sweetie. Okay, so I was taking out your grandparents' trash, and there he was—a peregrine falcon this big.” She extends her arms to show me. “You know the type of bird I have as my screen saver?”

“Strange. Are they rare?”

Mom raises her hand, and a soft clang from her silver rings tells me to stop talking. “Just listen. So, this bird lifts one wing, and I notice the other one isn't moving. I step closer and see that it's injured. I start to talk to him. I say, ‘It'll all be okay, Buddy, just stay right there,' then I run into the house and call the zoo. I say there is a peregrine falcon in the backyard. A woman says I must be mistaken. I say no, I'm not, I have one as my screen saver, and she says, ‘Yeah, whatever,' but that she'll send someone to the house.”

“Was she rude to you?”

“That's not the point. Listen. So, I go back outside and tell the bird he'll be okay. Eventually, a Toledo Zoo van rolls up. A little bald guy gets out, looks past me, and says, ‘Holy shit! That is a peregrine falcon!' I say, ‘I told you!' He gets this huge carrier and gently nudges the bird, at its back end, until it's inside.”

“Did the bird fight?”

“The bird went halfway inside. Then Bill, that was the man's name, told me I could pet the bird if I wanted. I put my hand on his feathers, soft as flower petals, and he whipped his head around. This stopped me; I got scared. His eyes were the color of fire—a burning orange, brighter than these walls. Then, before I could pull my hand away, he nestled his head in those giant black feathers and watched me pet him.”

“Wow. That's a great story,” I say.

Mom raises her hand to quiet me and then goes on. “Okay, so I start chatting this Bill up, you know how I do. And it turns out he was a Boy Scout, just like your Grandpa Homer. So, when the bird was safely in his carrier, I asked if Bill wouldn't mind showing the bird to Dad, and he agreed. We took the bird inside. Jen, I swear, color filled your grandpa's face. He said he knew exactly what kind of bird it was and started talking about the Scouts. Bill said he was in the Scouts too, and the two of them started talking. The bird brought life into that room. It only lasted a short time, though, and your grandfather fell back into his state. But before leaving, Bill turned to me and said I could name the bird if I wanted.”

“Did you name him Homer?”

“We went with your grandfather's middle name. Bill said he would try and fix the wing and release the bird back into the wild.”

After dinner, I sit in front of my mother's computer. I stare at the picture of the falcon, trying to remember Grandpa Homer's middle name. I wonder if the bird's wing will heal. I wonder if Grandpa is comfortable.

“Are you staying the night?” Mom asks.

“No, I'll be leaving soon. I'll lock up.”

Mom no longer asks me to accompany her on trips to Toledo, so when I ask if she wants me to go with her next weekend, she searches my face. After a moment, she says, “It'll be nice to have the company.” She still thinks I'll back out, I can tell, and I want to say I won't! I want to convince her, but she turns off the hallway light and disappears into her bedroom before I find the words.

I watch the orange-rimmed eyes on the screen saver, and I picture my grandfather, the icy texture of his hands, and the small space his body occupies. I wonder what it was, exactly, that kept me away. I watch until the picture fades and the screen goes dark. But the eyes remain, they bring me peace.