“You’d better hurry back in,” Grandma warns.
I never listen to her, though. I’m fed up with my good times always being on a timer, people constantly saying “time’s up” on my fun before I’m done. I roll my eyes mockingly at Grandma and keep walking, letting the screen door slam behind me for effect.
Just being barefoot in a cleansing cloudburst lifts my spirits five notches. I relish in the asphalt warmed rainwater rising around my ankles. The storm passes in seconds. Streaming sunlight returns, making the lingering drizzle visible. High speed spillway water tapers back down to a mere trickle.
I comb our wet lawn with curious toes, fishing for spring clover, examining surfacing worms and slugs. In a tangle of crabgrass lies a rare treasure; a small eggshell. Sprawled nearby, a hatchling catches my eye. She’s purple and featherless, perfect and lifeless.
I’m fascinated by her new beak, her slick body, those eyeballs that bulge under tightly closed lids. She’s much more real than the bird embryos we have floating in jars of formaldehyde on the shelves in science class. Her freshly expired absoluteness makes me look at her in a very devoted way. I imagine how this tiny creature might have looked if she’d been able to grow feathers and fly alive in the sky.
I name her Wonder because she makes me think about life—about what life has to show me and what I’m supposed to think about the things it shows me.
This delicate creature needs to be safely adored for awhile before she gets buried in a nice grave. Leaving her for a moment in the mist, I rush to the kitchen to get a container for her. Inside our cupboard there’s a roundish juice glass shaped like the top of a wine goblet without the stem. It’s as close to an egg as anything I can find. It will protect her. I grab pieces of silverware; a fork to gently lift the bird’s droopy body and a spoon to steady her head. Positioning the bird in the glass exactly right means she’ll be lying just like she would have lain in the egg itself.
