jumpingfish

There was ice on the patio under snow under ice. And then it started snowing again.

I stood at the patio door and looked out. At the Desert Willow which seemed to be bearing its ice burden well. At the Apple Trees which had begun blossoming a week ago and might be toast. At the Mexican Honeysuckle whose orange blossoms were weeping orange stains on the snow. At the frozen birdbaths. At the footprints in the snow. At the small bird sitting in one of the footprints…

Wait. What?

There was a tiny bird sitting motionless in a deep print in the snow. 

I opened the door and stepped out. The bird didn’t move. I walked up. It didn’t move. I reached down. It turned its head and looked up. I picked it up between my hands and went inside.

It was very small, very soft, brownish-grey, and had a streak of yellow in its wings — baby Lesser Goldfinch perhaps. It didn’t move as I stood in the kitchen, but it was watching me.

The fair and industrious Trudy fetched a small box and put a towel inside. And a syringe. And some birdseed. We got it to take a quick drink. I set it in the box on the towel and closed the lid. Trudy returned to work. I returned to the recliner. Izzy hopped onto my lap. 

Ten minutes later, Izzy’s ears perked up. There was a scratching, pecking sound coming from the box. A minute later, her ears perked up again. More scratching and pecking. I went to look. Prying the box slightly open, I could see that the bird had hopped to the top of the towel and was calmly peering out.

Not enough time to warm up, I decided and so shut the box. After five more minutes, there was louder, more determined scratching. I took another look. The bird looked up at me.

I reached down, picked it up, went outside, and slowly opened my fingers. The bird faced into the breeze. I held the finger of my other hand toward it. The bird looked at me and then hopped onto my finger. And then onto my forearm. And to my shoulder where it turned around, took a jump, and fell.

I picked it and wrapped my fingers about it. Then opened them and held out the other finger. It hopped up. Then onto my forearm. Then to my shoulder where it took a jump, flapped its wings and was gone.

A man in a mask sat in a chair in the performing arts center parking lot. He said to wait 20 minutes and then to walk to the blue tent.

At the blue tent, there was a man in a mask who pointed to two people in masks at a table. These two looked at my drivers license, put a yellow band around my wrist, gave me a form to fill out, and told me to give it to the people over there.

Over there, a woman in a mask took my form, checked my yellow band, took my temperature, and told me to go in through the main doors. A man in a mask pointed me to the other end of the lobby. A woman in a mask looked at my wrist band and directed me to another woman in a mask who directed me to another door where yet another woman in a mask stood.

This woman was wearing scrubs. I was getting close. The walls were lined with numbered tables, suitably spaced. There were people with rolled up sleeves sitting beside each table and nurses administering jabs. I stood on a sticker on the floor six feet behind the person in front of me. 45 seconds later, the woman in scrubs pointed me to Table 2.

“Just a little pin prick,” the Table 2 woman said. She put a bandaid on my arm, gave me a CDC vaccination card, and directed me to the far side of the room.

I listened to several more people in masks and followed long, yellow arrows on the floor down a hallway to the auditorium where yet more people in masks gave instructions. I sat in Row 15 suitably distanced from the others who had just got their jabs. 

A woman  stood next to our row and gave instructions from behind a muffling mask. After fifteen minutes, she said we were free to go.

Altogether, it was a well-masked and well-oiled machine. 

It hasn’t been this cold nor have we had this much snow since I moved to Texas in 1982. Café Trudy is officially closed for business.

We had finished the notes. They had finished the practice problems. Four students were talking on the far side of the room in voices that were gradually getting louder. One of them cursed. 

I looked up. He looked at me. His hands were clasped.

“Sorry,” he said.

I smiled but shook my head slowly.

“I’m sorry to your grandmother.”

There is one rule about language in our classroom. I teach it on the first day: I expect them to speak as if my grandmother is in the room. Because, I tell them, she always is.

“You’re grandmother is in the room?”

“She is.” 

This turns out to be an effective way to frame things. I am not the bad guy. And without knowing her, they somehow know her well enough to regulate their own language. 

“Mr. Hasan’s grandmother!” I sometimes hear one of them whispering to another.

She is always in the room.