Bliss

She is waiting. Her father is gone. Getting shot at. Or whatever. She knows that more people die every year in California in car accidents than die Over There. In the Sandbox. If she had been marking days off a calendar, like some people did, she would know that her father was supposed to have been back by now. She would be impatient and anxious. She was glad she didn't do that. Wasn't anxious. He had told her mom the new date of return. But it would probably change, too. Always did. Better not to know. Perhaps it was today. She could go inside, but then she'd have to talk to people. She'd rather wait outside. The air was brisk, but the sky was rosy and the birds were singing. She looked around. One of the hanging plants had fallen, and someone had placed it in the rocking chair. There was a nest in it. Dead baby birds. It had landed on the mama bird. Bird brains. Well, can't do anything about them now. Don't look. It's just a couple of birds. There's a reason "bird-brain" is an insult. Don't care. Birds are singing. Birds are singing abnormally close. She glances back at the nest. One left. Ugly little thing. About the size of her thumb. About the same colour, too. You're not supposed to pick up eggs, 'cause then the mother won't return. Well, mama won't be returning. And it must be cold. She can see right through it. And it can't see a thing. She looks at the door. Talk to people. She tells them. Asks for something to put it in. She will bring it to school with her, to the biology teacher, Mrs. Pattern. Mrs. Pattern will understand. Will help. They bring an empty jewelry box. The poor thing looks so alone, so cold. It can't grip the slick cardboard. She holds it in her hands. Keeps it warm. It seems to understand, to trust her. It quiets, and lays still. She can see it breathing. Feel it's blood beating against her hands. It's an hour to school. The bird brain stays asleep. He's rather cute, really. In a Smeagol sort of way. Mrs. Pattern hasn't come yet. School doesn't officially start for another hour, and she has choir practice. He will probably like their singing. Make him comfortable. Anyway he's still asleep. He sleeps through most of choir practice. A few kids ask her what she's holding. She shows them, carefully. She doesn't want him to wake. They laugh. She gets someone else to put her folder away, and rushes up to the biology lab. Oh, good! Mrs. Pattern is here. She reveals the bird. Mrs. Pattern gets out a heat lamp, and a towel, and calls the animal people. Mrs. Pattern tells her she shouldn't have touched him. And tells her to come back every hour to feed the bird a few drops of water. At the end of the day, Mrs. Pattern will take the bird to a rescue agency. She leaves class early to feed the bird. Sneaks into the back of the lab. Still breathing! She gets out the dropper, and watches him drink. She can see him swallow - see the water go down his throat and into his belly. His belly gets bigger and bigger throughout the day. There is an air bubble in it. He is still calm. Other kids have heard about him. Come to see him. Mrs. Pattern decides to let a couple other kids pick him up, after they have washed their hands. She is worried. At the end of the day Mrs. Pattern gives her an email address where she can write to find out if he survives. He probably won't, you know. She knows. She gets home. Math, ugh. Dinner time. Clean the kitchen. She turns on the computer. "Dear Dad, Hey. How are you? Is it very hot? I found a bird today. Got my math test back - B. It's cold here. Bye. Love you." Click. Send. She stares at the address. Slowly... "Dear Rescue Agency, Hello. I found a baby bird today. My teacher, Mrs. Pattern, brought it in. She said I could send to this address to find out. So I was wondering how he was doing. Thanks. Bye." Click. Delete. Better not to know.