Love is the thing with feathers.
They watch out the window in turn of page, Anything out there? Just the squirrels. Julian cranes his neck over the page, eyes undecided. A hummingbird! he shouts and they both turn, and whisper, so as to not stir anything up. They creep closer to the window, Julian pointing a so-small finger at the window, holding his hand close to his face as if it might blend to his body, unnoticeable.
I’ve never cared for birds. They often swoop too close, and they shit from above. I don’t like the way they peck at crumbs and seeds, bobbing their mass of feathers propped onto skinny, frail legs. There is something unsettling about their ability to fly with pronged claws hanging beneath. Even watching through the dining room window, I find this to be true.
When I left for a study abroad program in London for the summer, Julian was still in school. A few days before my flight I sat in the dining room with them, facing away from the windows and toward Julian. I liked to watch the way his mouth chewed, how he decided what to eat first and what to save for last (the peanut butter wafers first, the carrots last), and how he watched pages turn and birds land on the cylindrical feeder that dangled from its metal hanger. He listened to them squawk: Yep, that’s a finch! That’s a blue jay! There’s a robin! Their beaks are too pointy to be cute, I thought. My Grandma licked her finger and flipped a page, Looks like you’re both having an afternoon snack!
On my second day in London I took the Northern to Victoria and walked ten minutes to the garden outside Buckingham Palace, which is said to have something like thirty species of birds. I saw a few green parakeets—I never knew there were green parakeets in London—and I thought about my brother. I pictured his toothy grin and could hear his high-pitched excitement. I shuffled toward one of the parakeets and swallowed spit as I saw its claws curl around skinny branches. I grimaced at its squawking and clasping beak. If Julian were here, he would want it to land on him, on his arm, maybe on his shoulder. I stepped through dried piles of berry-colored excrement following tail feathers from branch to branch. I reached out my arm, holding my hand toward it like I had some kind of food.
My arm became branched and, between my fingers, a little beak pecked in hunger. In seconds my trick was discovered, and I was left with slightly reddened imprints of curved claws. I felt guilty that I had nothing to offer and hoped the bird wasn’t too hungry, but I had to get closer.
Later that night, I would call my Grandma’s house and tell Julian what I’d seen, about the green parakeets of London and how I’d been close enough to touch them, and he’d tell me what the robins at home were doing now.
