Motionless Wings

by Lori E. Erickson

Originally published at Mocha Memoirs, February 2001.

The swallows were motionless smudges against a gray sky. Andie huddled on the porch steps and stared at them dully--there wasn't anything better to look at. And she was too weary to do anything else.

Weary? You're lazy. You have no reason for moping.

The admonition only fed the persistent, numbing buzz inside her head. Andie wrapped her arms around her hollow center and waited for the chorus of gray noise to stop.

The grandfather clock droned out the hour, muffled by the walls between them. The buzzing in Andie's head swelled.

Time to pick up the kids. Think you can manage that?

Tears welled, but dried quickly in the stinging wind. Andie didn't move: she watched a shriveled leaf struggle to cling to the oak beside the porch. It wrestled with the wind, but its efforts were useless. In the end, it was swept away.

"What's the point?" Andie whispered, shivering.

When she looked back at the swallows, they were larger. Closer.

Close enough to dispel the earlier illusion of motionlessness. Their frail-looking wings beat frantically, pulling them unerringly against the wind. They could have landed, could have dropped from the sky and never risen again. Instead, they flew.

The sun peered between scudding clouds, sparking silver light off blue-gray wings. Andie watched the swallows trudge past overhead. When they'd moved on, she stood and fetched her keys from the house.

It was time to pick up the kids.