J. R. Salling
Bird in the Grass
The chalk outline nearby was not of the sparrow, but it might as well
have been.
"Is it dead, mommy?"
What a beautiful day at the park, the sort of day that people who
design
parks always sketch to sell their idea. I did not want to answer the
question and spoil the picture; however, my little girl was waiting.
"Yes, I believe so."
I tried to think of some way to distract her attention from the
subject—cotton candy perhaps—something light and sweet and
colorful. While I scanned the park for a vendor, she slipped away.
"Jenny, come back here!"
From her backward glance I knew she heard my call, but she climbed
over
the short wall anyway. She wanted to examine the bird, I figured, maybe
bury it. Dead things needed burying. And then I remembered that dead
things could carry disease.
"Don't touch it," I called after her, and gathered my things together in
order to follow.
I stopped at the wall, wondering if I should cross over as well. "Come
back or you're in big trouble," I tried, with little hope of success.
She
had already squatted down beside the creature. Its head and speckled
wings were tucked under its body so that it resembled a toad.
As a typical parent, I suppose, I admired how cute she looked in her
white sandals and blue top, and how her damp blond hair curled from
beneath her cap. She was so officious in her examination. She'll be a
scientist, I thought. But when she reached out to prod the bird, my
muscles tightened. Her back blocked part of my view. Then her head
jerked. Something was wrong, I decided.
"Jenny!"
My little girl could not hear. She began to make an odd gesture with
her
arms, like she was scooping sand at the beach. Then I understood.
Responding to her encouragement, the sparrow hopped away, and then, with
a quick flutter, took to the air again. The collision with the baseball
had merely stunned it.
The crowd cheered and she turned to me, joyous, amazed at what she
could
do. She did not even seem to notice when a member of the grounds crew
lifted her up and carried her back to me. She clapped along.
I clapped too, until she filled my arms. Because that's what people do
when one of the injured leaves the field, or when they witness magic.
"Play ball!" the umpire shouted, satisfied that the game could resume.
And they did. They played all afternoon.
©2005 by J. R. Salling
