When You’re Ready
by Alicia Peterson
A tiny bundle of feathers hit the window with a muffled thump, and Amy jumped in her kitchen chair.
Her best friend, Julie, glanced out the window. “Oh, poor thing.”
The bird lay sideways in the snowbank outside, one wing awkwardly extended under its body.
“It might just be stunned.” Julie turned back to Amy. “I’m taking you to lunch, no arguments. When’s the last time you left the apartment?”
The bird looked so wrong. So still. Amy couldn’t tell if it was breathing. Suddenly, she needed to know.
She shot up from the table. “Where are my boots?”
Julie blinked. “You can shower first, I’ll wait.”
“I’m not going to lunch.” Amy opened the hall closet. No boots. When was the last time she’d gone outside? “Do you see them anywhere?”
“I…no, I don’t. Is this about the sparrow?”
“Redpoll. It flew here from the Arctic.” Such a big life for a tiny bird.
In the last three weeks, Amy’s own world had contracted to nearly nothing: unopened condolence cards, a brown-ringed coffee cup she refused to wash. A flock of redpolls at the feeder were her only welcome visitors.
“Sweetie, slow down,” Julie called as Amy criss-crossed the apartment. “The bird will probably be fine. Come on, I’m serious about lunch.”
Amy hated ‘probably.’ Probably had been Jack’s chances of making it safely to work.
She skipped the boots and stepped outside in her slippers.
The subzero temperature gripped her like teeth, and she wrapped Jack’s old cardigan more tightly around herself and tiptoed through the snow to the tiny body. The other birds scattered. She crouched low and held her breath, watching.
Snow filled her slippers, and the inside of her nose crackled and froze.
There! Its breast rose and fell in quick rhythm.
It looked so uncomfortable in that position. Amy pulled one worn sleeve over her fingers and nudged. The bird rolled onto its feet, and she gave a silent shout of victory.
But it didn’t fly away.
The edges of her feet were getting numb. She shook her slipper out to one side, trying to dislodge the snow. The move tipped her off-balance. With a yelp, she landed sideways in the snowbank, buried from hip to outstretched hand next to the redpoll.
From this angle, she could see Julie’s face through the window, her mouth open.
Amy pushed awkwardly back into a crouch. “Aren’t we a pair?”
The bird didn’t move, except for the in-out-in-out of its feathered breast.
Amy released her breath. Maybe Julie was right. It would probably be fine. But first, it would do this. It would just breathe.
“Mind if I join you?”
They sat together, half-frozen, alive but not moving, and shared a few fragile, tenacious breaths.
Amy stood up. She was ready. And she would never be ready. “Good luck, little friend.”
The bird remained.
She went inside. “I can’t go to lunch today, Jules. But I’ll try tomorrow.” In, out. “Probably.”
Lake Superior Writers 