Auburn McCanta All the Dancing Birds (epub) id

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.She bedevils me like that.“You are coming, aren’t you?”“Of course,” I say.Then I toss out a mere half-truth, hoping it’s at least something good enough to turn the conversation around.“I know… I should have called.But my wallet and keys turned up missing this morning.Not to worry, though, sweetie.I just now found them and… wouldn’t you know they were in the bottom of my purse all the time? I’m just on my way out the door now.” My mouth puckers with the acerbity of the lie.“Go ahead and open the wine, if you haven’t already,” I say.“And I hope you have my favorite red this time.”I look out the kitchen window in time to see a robin flutter into a small Chinese pistache tree.The spindly tree, planted only last spring, barely managed to gasp and struggle its way through its first Sacramento summer‌—‌and it had been a hot one.Now it defiantly prances in the day’s stiff breeze, its leaves turned red and stubborn against the cold as if it were fully grown and thick in the trunk.Its crimson leaves look like flying embers hot enough to burn the feathers of any bird foolish to rattle into its branches.I think of that robin, now swallowed up into the tree’s center and, for the merest moment, my throat catches.Overhead, clouds are now forming into giant sculptures of dragons and angels, with fire-spitting dragons winning the day.I am very, very close to bursting into tears.“I’ve got red and white,” Allison says, her round voice again pulling my clotted thoughts back into a threadbare semblance of normalcy.“Try to hurry, Mom.Seriously, dinner’s almost ready.”Her voice becomes a papery whisper; she’s cupped her hand around the phone.“I should warn you that Bryan’s a bit grumpy, so be prepared.” Then louder, she says, “So, I hope you get here before everything is totally overcooked.”In spite of her warning, I look forward to an evening with my children.Our conversations are always fierce and bombastic, punctuated here and there with squeals of brilliant laughter.Allison especially relishes egging things on toward heightened velocity, complete disruption.I preside over it all with a mother’s presumed calm.“I’m already out the door, dear.And don’t worry,” I say, raking my fingers like a comb through my hair.“I’ll help when I get there.” I think of my daughter hovering with uncertainty over a steaming pot of pasta, urging the water along, now and then poking a fork into a clump of swirling noodles.“Just hurry up and get here,” she says, “for, you know… the other thing.”“Oh, you mean Bryan? Well, of course, dear.I can’t wait to see him.” I make the first completely true and honest statement of our conversation.It’s hard to locate the last time I’ve seen my boy.My boy.My heart of hearts, my love of loves.Allison makes a groaning noise.I can see that, once more, I shall oversee the friendly dissonance of my children; I’m delighted with the prospect.We hang up and I decide to also hang up the last of my horrible day.After unclipping my car keys, I wipe my wallet clean from any remaining scent of lettuce and shove it into my purse.I give my face a fast swipe of lipstick and then hurry to the car.I pat the hood as I cross to the driver’s door.“Good old paint,” I say.“You, at least, decided not to crawl into the lettuce drawer.”Within a few minutes, I squeeze into an opening just large enough for my car on the ramp of eastbound Interstate 80, heading toward Fair Oaks.The sky stays busy shuffling clouds around and around until I feel nearly dizzy from the constant movement.In front of me, I see a long, dark line of rain; behind me, the sun works its way toward the horizon.I’m somewhere between the rain and the sun, firmly wedged into a lane of stop-and-go cars.I float along within a stream of sour-faced commuters.The traffic is agonizingly slow, but my mind thankfully whirls with thoughts of my Allison‌—‌my first, and in some ways, my best.She is beautiful.Yummy.She is what I once was and I am what she will become.After thirty-two years, I still feel the astonishment of her birth, the moment of her exit from my body, the continued string of our connection.We share structure and cells and even the peculiarity of subtle mannerisms and vocalizations: the way we tilt our heads just slightly to the right when we puzzle over something; how the understructure of our speech is a composite blend of the drawling, warm butter drizzle of North Carolina painted over with a clipped northern California influence; the way we bite our lower lip when pensive or disquieted; the looping gestures we make with our hands.We also share the odd quirk of our names.I am Lillie Claire Glidden.She is Allison Claire Colson.We laugh that our first, middle, and last names each are peppered with little ells [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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