J.W. Surface
The Bird Waited In the perfect of June he came to inspect the HVAC; modern man’s comfort. I said a little prayer that he would not have a death sentence. He attached his hose, the spout squeaked, and water flowed. He began his process of cleaning and examining. Assessing its quality of life. Hearing the water, a bird perched on a nearby rose bush. Watching and waiting for the water to bring up the easy meal. “How long you been doing this?” I hoped my question wasn’t too obvious. “Fifty two years this July,” he said, limping around the machine. Noting the bird, he let the water run into the dirt. The bird chirped its approval, hopped to a lower branch, and waited for us to leave. Its color, worn with years. His grey hair and wrinkles matched the faded and ruffled feathers. Both, old and weathered. But not done.
Doctors and Veterinarians often utter this horrible phrase, “quality of life.” They say it as if it’s a politically correct and sensitive way to say that someone or something is near death, and now the remainder of their life must be measured. The number of ‘good days’ must be measured. There’s a lot things we measure like this. Too often we focus on such things, instead of focusing on the little things in life. Like a perfect day in June.
fall 2020
UIndy
59
