JENNY WHISTLED THROUGH THE MAIL SLOT
I thought of birds swoop-swooping down. I thought of wings still damp with birth.
If they drop, our mother said, don’t place your hands upon them.
But why? we asked.
Their mothers might just leave the nest, fly out above, and flitter off.
I cupped my hands behind my back. I told my sisters to do the same.
Old wives’ tale, our father said, his hands held out before him.
Silence sunk. A chill breathed in from out.
If we’d known that chill came from the opened mail slot, the neighbor Jenny blowing through it, we might not have cared which one was right. Instead we held one hand before us, one hand back; our eyes, pulled from the nest, soared back and forth between them.
When Father said, I’ll get the birds, and when he placed his hands upon our backs—if only we’d known there were no birds, if only we’d known it was someone out just breezing in—we might not have flown so easy with him, while Mother stayed, while Mother knelt upon the stony hearth, fisting fingers into knots.
Kate Hill Cantrill’s writing has appeared in various literary publications, including: StoryQuarterly, Blackbird, 3rd Bed, Salt Hill, The Believer, QuickFiction, Goodfoot, Pindeldyboz, Drunken Boat, Vestal Review, and is forthcoming in Wet Ink. She lives in Austin, Texas, where she teaches creative writing for the Extension Department of UT and organizes the Utter Reading Series held each month at BookPeople. She is currently writing a novel.
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