Wordsmoker

When I was almost seven years old I ate two liverwurst sandwiches on seeded rye bread. With dark, spicy mustard. Washed both of them down with one glass of milk. I did this on a Saturday afternoon at the table in the tiny kitchen where on a different Saturday Butch the parakeet flew out of the window.  Before he made his break he hovered at the window, his blue head tilting twitchy lefts and rights. He fluttered in the air above the sill, landed on his bird feet and paused. He looked up at the sash, back at me and he was gone. This was not the order of things and I worried. Would I be in trouble? Would I be blamed for Butchie’s escape? Should I have told him not to fly out the window that she had left open? When he said goodbye I knew I’d never see him again. Read the rest of this entry →