The Driftwood Bird

When I found it on the beach, I stuck it in the buggy with the baby, later
pushed them both home in the thin February sun. The cocker spaniel ran
along beside us, making an occasional wild dash toward the sea gulls
scavenging in the sand. When the baby learned to walk, we had to get rid of the dog, because it bit him on the face. Later we had to let the baby go, too, because first he entered college, then grew up and left home for good.
I still have the driftwood bird, have moved it from home to home for over
fifty years. It sits on a shelf, its wooden Pinocchio beak sticking out
into the living room. I suspect most of my visitors wonder why I keep this ancient souvenir, treat it as a guest of honor. To me it is a symbol, as the dried camellia corsage from her junior prom is to a romantic girl. When I look at the bird, it’s 1950 again, and we are living on the Oregon coast,
high above the Pacific Ocean. I kiss my husband goodbye in the morning as he leaves to teach at the high school in Tillamook. Later I shape the towel into big rabbit ears, as I dry the baby’s head after his bath. I sing to him from The Fireside Book of Folk Songs before his nap. His face lets me know his favorite is the one about Dublin’s fair city, so we have that one every day. In the afternoon, if the weather’s in a good mood, we go down to the beach where we found the bird. Later, when my husband comes home, he lifts the baby to his shoulders and gallops him around the house, or, if the baby is teething and fussy, sings “Beer, Beer for Old Willamette U” to help him fall asleep. Watching them, I’m convinced life at that moment is beautiful, as beautiful as it gets. Today, looking at the driftwood bird, I know that I was right.