The Honeycreeper
There’s a scuffling sound in the living room, but I don’t want to get out of bed because I’m mid-move on the beautiful creature lying next to me.
“Go see what it is,” she says, her voice soft in the dark.
I’m halfway to the kitchen when a surge of air whizzes near my ear. I turn on a light to watch a red honeycreeper barrel headfirst into the ceiling. It falls upon impact but lands on its feet on the cabinet above the fridge. The cat pounces onto the dishwasher, coils into a deep crouch, hind legs forward, eyes locked high. I scoop him under my armpit and squeeze.
Without letting go of the cat, I fling the sliding door wide and try to shoo the bird into the night, shining my phone’s light into the black outside.
I wave my hands, prod with a broom, even hoist the cat like a jack-o’-lantern. Nothing moves the stubborn little fledgling. I set the cat on the dishwasher. He’s too low to reach the bird. Good enough. I leave the sliding door open.
Awake before the light, I find the honeycreeper exactly where I left it. The cat is asleep at my daughter’s feet.
When I start the coffee maker, wings flutter. The bird steps onto the dishwasher then flies out into the dawn.
Later that morning my daughter leaves a Chinese finger trap on the counter. I slide my fingers in, then try to get free. First I tug. The device squeezes like a boa constrictor. I relax my fingers and wiggle gently. Nothing. Frustrated, I pull and yank until the woven lattice rips. I bury the evidence before my girls come home.
I think of the bird.
No bright body and head lying separate on my kitchen floor. No red pool of gizzard, heart, and feathers.
