It’s a little chillier this morning, but I sit out on the balcony anyways. I’m in the middle of a book of short stories I’m really enjoying. As I read, I occasionally check my phone for updates in the live coverage of the Trump hush money trial. I don’t know why I’m interested in it; I don’t usually do more than glance at such stories. But it has colorful characters and the stakes are low, and I suppose I secretly hope something melodramatic happens.
I glance up at the ledge and see the junco once again clinging to the underside of the decorative flower. How odd that it keeps doing that. Then suddenly it disappears. I tilt my glasses so I can see clearer.
The flower does not quite meet the underside of the ledge it’s attached to, and I can just make out bits of twigs and grass sticking out from the space in between.
It’s a nest. There’s a fucking nest in there.
A moment later the little bird reappears and zips off across the highway. Is it still building the nest, or bringing food to its mate as she sits on the eggs? I put down the hard boiled egg I’ve been chewing on, feeling a little guilty. But there’s a nest right above the window of my own nest! If I’m lucky, maybe at some point I’ll get the chance to watch the little ones fly out. If there are little ones. If they make it.
The junco is gone a long time. I pray I haven’t frightened it away. After nearly an hour it returns though and slips inside. A minute later it pops its head out, looks around, and takes off toward the hills. I want to tell everyone I know, even though it’s ridiculously silly to be so excited about something so inconsequential. I want to get some birdseed for them but am afraid that Olivia will get too excited. So far she hasn’t noticed the junco coming or going.
When I get to the hospital I see a sign in the lobby that says there will be baby goats here from 11 to 1:30. It doesn’t say where they will be, or why. When I get out of treatment I text N. that I’m done and leave by the side entrance as usual. Half the parking lot is roped off. Two trucks are giving away sno-cones and blaring tin drum versions of the Pina Colada song and Margaritaville. Off to one side, in the shade, is a low wire fence with a half dozen baby goats inside, being petted and picked up by nurses and patients. A tattooed woman in a pair of hot pants opens the gate to let people in and out. N. texts that he’s going to be a little late, so I get in line and soon find myself in the pen, waiting for a baby goat to be free.
A nurse with a goat in her arms asks “Do you want a wiggly one?”
“I’ve been waiting years for someone to ask me that," I say, and she hands me a squirmy little goat, who starts bleating loudly. Once he’s in my arms he quiets down immeditely, and seems completely relaxed. I scratch him behind the ears like a cat- he’s not any heavier than Olivia. His hair is surprisingly soft. I could hold him all day, but there is a long line forming so I ask the nurse to take a picture, then hand him back and head leave the enclosure.
Maybe this is where I should end this story: standing on the edge of a parking lot, surrounded by people in scrubs, listening to steel drum rendition of “How Sweet it Is (to be Loved by You),” punctuated by the occasional plaintive bleat. The sun is shining and a soothing breeze is blowing and the forecast for tomorrow is calling for more of the same. A young woman with no legs wheels through the gate and a baby goat is placed upon her lap. She beams with delight.
My ride pulls up. The credits roll.
THE END
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