Ornithology

This garden hasn’t always been dirty. But the new people, these youngsters, are moving in and dirtying up my favorite park. I have been coming here since my infancy, when the waters were as clear as the skies, which have also seemed to get dirtied by this noxious gray fog that blocks out the sun. The greenery has faded away, with the sprawling emerald grass fields getting paved over with rusty bricks and gum-littered concrete—the birds, instead of landing in the park to rest before continuing on their migration south, flew right over the disappearing trees, their gnarly branches snagging a bird’s wing one time. I caught it. I nursed it back to health, but it had lost its flock, who were probably already in Mexico enjoying margaritas and guacamole by the pound. How depressing it must be, to get left behind by the rest of the group and be completely alone in an unknown world.

Now, as my bird Stella sits next to me munching on the sunflower seeds I spread on my knee, I scowl as my childhood home becomes less and less populated by flowers and bushes and more and more by Starbucks cups and couples doing the most intimate things in public.

“Where has the time gone, Stella,” I grumble to my companion, shakily reaching into my pocket and pouring out more sunflower seeds onto my knee. My goddamn Parkison’s refuses to allow me to pour them in a straight line, and most of the seeds land on the ground. Good thing Stella isn’t picky, jumping happily onto the concrete and pecking at the seeds.

“Whoa, a bird!” a voice rings out, and I protectively scoop Stella from the ground and cup my hands over her small body. I look up to see one of those hipsters rushing over to me, his giant headphones bouncing on his shoulders that held a head with a sickeningly bright smile on his face. “Gramps, is that your bird?”

Gramps. How asinine. Whatever happened to respect?

“Well, I’d say that’s a white-throated sparrow if I’ve ever seen one,” he says, digging in his pocket and holding out what looks like millet in the palm of his hand. Stella seems to smell the food because she peeks her little head out of the gap in my fingers and flutters her wings, causing me to open my hands in fear of injuring her. She flies out quickly and into this stranger’s hand. Great, now I can’t have my own bird without these people stealing her away from me. At least he has enough respect to recognize her species. It seems as if he has more respect for the bird than me.

“Yes, her name is Stella,” I reply.

“Stella? That’s a great name for such a pretty lady,” he replies. How...odd. He talks in the same way I talk to Stella at home.

“Yes. She’s named after my wife.” I suck in a sharp breath. “My late wife.”

“Oh, damn,” the man says, taking the liberty to walk over and sit down on the bench, Stella still happily munching away. “Sorry about that, dude. But hey, Stella here is a pretty good friend, I’d say.”

Stella looks up as if to acknowledge the compliment before diving back into the millet. He turns his head to face me, and for the first time, I take a good look at him. He can’t be more than twenty years old, and he has a pair of binoculars around his neck. He notices my line of sight and laughs. “I was bird-watching by the way. I didn’t expect to actually get this close to a bird today, though.” He lifts Stella up to his eyes and smiles as if he’s looking at his bride on his wedding day, and I realize he looks at the bird the same way I looked at my wife. He then pours the rest of the millet onto the bench in the space between us and smiles at me, a blinding grin that causes me to frown deeper in response. He slaps his thighs lightly in a way to not startle Stella, beginning to rise from the bench. “Well, I better get going. Thanks for the experience, gramps! Sparrows are one of my favorites other than warblers, but they’re hard to beat. See ya!”

But before I realize what I am doing, my arm shoots out and stops the man from moving another inch forward, surprising the both of us. We look at each other in awkward silence for a moment before I clear my throat. Maybe not all these hipsters that run around the park like it’s a playground aren’t too bad. Some of them are using it for its intended purpose. So I begrudgingly bring my arm back into my lap, my hands shaking again, but this time it wasn’t from the Parkinson’s.

“I’d like to hear more about those warblers, if you have the time,” I say quietly, my gaze dropping to Stella absentmindedly picking away at the plentiful food in front of her. The man stutters for a moment before sitting back down and lifting the binoculars from his neck.

“I guess I could stay a little longer with dear Stella here,” he says happily before launching into an explanation of warblers, a poor interpretation of their bird call, and why they’re his favorite (it was the first bird he had). As I listen to him speak so happily about birds, I look around the park and notice it’s...brighter than before. The couples are no longer making out in broad daylight. They’re holding hands, feeding each other fruit as they sit on the rim of the fountain, chatting happily. There are other birds, pecking at the concrete and the few bushes that are present. The fog parts to allow a ray of light to pass through, struggling to illuminate the park until it reaches Stella, who looks like an angel. The man and I agree to meet up again in the park, and for the first time, I actually look forward to coming back.