Bird

Mike and I had been driving back to town in my apple red Hyundai, a few scratches on its doors. I'd gone mudding with some friends freshman year, something I doubt my car was meant for. The mud had dried, and I'd tried to scuff it off with an ice scraper. I don't know why I didn't take it to the car wash. 

The weather peaked at Indian summer with just enough sun and a kiss of autumn chill. The leaves were bouquets of red and yellow crumbling from the trees. I'd pulled out the county map that morning and pointed to the furthest corner. We'd been planning on driving a few hours north to Lake Erie for an afternoon, but it was supposed to rain. The last time I'd visited the lake there had been mayflies--in our hair, on our clothes, making their way between the cracks in the windows of the car. Mike had never been.

I'm glad we hiked instead. We threw on sweatshirts, got in the car, and stopped at Giant Eagle. Grocery List: Chex Mix, Cheez-Its, Baked Lays, Nesquick. These were brunch. We spent the afternoon hiking through the woods, sitting in the shade of trees older and maybe wiser than my mother and grandmother.

I'd hit a bird on the way back home. It smacked the center of the windshield, and flew off the side of the car, nearly grazing one of the mirrors. I'd been driving a few miles over the speed limit, sunroof open and music off, barely listening to the wind. We'd been talking about craftsmanship, and how people are losing it these days. Thinking back now, we sounded so old. "Kids these days don't know how to work." "This or that confounded technology!" 

I braked a little when the bird hit, taking in a breath sharply. My heart sank into my stomach.

"I just hit a bird."

"You what?"

"Nope."

"What?"

"Shh. Don't talk about it. Talk about something else."

Months later, I'd forgotten.

"Do you remember that time when you hit the bird?"

"I hit a bird?" It was a question. "When?"

"Don't you remember? We were driving back from..."

It came back, piece by piece. He hadn't talked about it for a few months, just to be safe. It was winter now. We were on our third or fourth snow, and no one wore short sleeves anymore. 

"What color was the bird? Was it big?" I interrogated him.

"I don't remember. I just heard a thud and asked you what had happened. And then you wouldn't let me talk about it. Until, like, now." He grinned and shook his head.

I spoke to my mother on the phone this week about how we remember the things we want to and forget the rest. There is a sadness that's been creeping into my daydreams. When I try to catch it and ask it what it is or what it came for, it slips off. I have seen it only three times, and each time I get an image: a small red bike, wheels spinning, laying on its side in the grass. The other two I have forgotten, swept away by other thoughts. One day I will reel in this sadness as it comes and ask, "Who are you, and how did I forget you? Where are you hiding?" and claim it for my own mind.