Author Information
summer of feathers
The average American family is portrayed with a mother, father, a son and daughter, and a baby. My family truly was an odd one. I grew up with only two brothers and myself, a mother, grandmother and uncle all living under one roof.
My mother used to cluck her tongue at my uncle and his friend, shooing them away from us when we were smaller. She always was over protective, though now that I’m grown, I suppose it was for good reason. She was a very attentive woman, always nit picking about us being clean and fed, making sure our beds were worm. Not something one would have expected from a woman so young.
Grandmother was always trying different foods to see what we’d like. She’s the one who introduced us to Gerber baby food, and later to sardines…which we hated. But she was a kindly woman, and her experience had shown through on many occasions, as she would gently guide Mom in bringing my brothers and me up.
In truth, this happy fairytale didn’t begin here. It started further back when I had three brothers, rather than two. I had a home away from the one that I know now, and a mother and father that actually looked like me.
The tragedy started when I was young, too young to actually remember. From what has been told throughout the new family, my original home collapsed while my parents were away. It was in the dead of summer in North Carolina, and for those who aren’t familiar with the weather there, summers tend to be boiling hot. What caused the collapse, be it from weather or what other circumstances, nobody really knows. All that has been said is that my brothers and I cried desperately in the rubble, crying for help. I can only assume our cries got louder once we realized that one of the brood of four had been killed.
It was a kindly middle aged man who found us and took us under his wing. His wrinkled face and balding head was a reminder of his age, but his eyes held a youth in him that wouldn’t die. He called for help, and before my brothers and I could completely grasp what had happened, we were being presented to the woman I know now as my grandmother. Her red hair was streaked elegantly with silver lines and curled to the shoulder. She had a petite form, a tiny little thing by her kind’s standards, energetic to say the least for her age, but a sweet woman none the less.
She set up a small room for my brothers and me, watching over us until our new mother was to show. Mother now, she was an odd thing as well. Like grandmother, she had a petite form, though she didn’t seem quite as energetic as the elder of the two. As I mentioned before, mother was over protective, but for good reason. As I got older, I also got bolder and would periodically do things that might have been dangerous; like jump off the high tables.
Later into the season, as my mind began to develop an actual memory, I began to get cocky in my ways. Fighting with my brothers, I would take off, careening across the room like a mad child. Mother would calmly walk over, settle a towel over my head and waited until I had calmed down.
Finally, she and grandmother decided that it was time for us to know what the world was really like outside the fortress we knew as home. After bringing us outside, they gave us time to wonder about our new world. My brothers and I were dumbfounded, and continued to gaze upon the lush green scenery that was before us, curious as to what the future held.
Leaving home isn’t as hard as one would imagine. To turn your back on those who raised you, and to not even chance a glance at the shadows of the past, is rather easy when all you do is face forward to the world at large. From time to time I find myself visiting my home, perching on mother and grandmother’s porch railing. I stare at mother’s window, and from time to time, a cat will be staring back. If I could turn my beak up into a smirk, I would; I truly hate cats. And if I’m lucky, I periodically see one of my brothers in the next yard over, perched on a yucca plant and flaunting his beauty. Yes, from time to time I even see mother charging up the steps as she always did that summer before. When she spots me, her face blooms into a smile of pride and joy, happy to see her adopted child flying back home again. After the smile, I promptly preen my feathers and take flight again, possibly having a brood of my own.
