[You Alter the Path Once]

You alter the path once and once the children see the shadows in the alcove under the school’s front steps, the bars, the down-white plumage, the herb-green feathering, you walk closer to peer into the aviary at the parrots and parakeets. “Hello,” you said, and the birds said nothing. “Hello,” the children said in their language. The eyes and heads swivel and tilt, speaking back; their conversation continuing beyond your vocabulary. The last school bell rings. The keeper dousing the floor and scrubbing. The food bucket’s chunks of pumpkin, pomegranate, and broccoli. The children’s delight as the parrots are fed what they request. This solidified the new route in your child’s head, a map of the way home. Your child’s new school, past the birds, past the after-school rush on the snack kiosk, Cyrillic licorice and chocolate candies you’d once bought to memorize the wrappers of each taste. The last landmark, the children’s library, one corner from home. Your child permitted to check out books, his reading to you before bed in the language he speaks with everyone except you. It’s your child’s patience, his quick translations and corrections, that allow you to understand the story.

Read more from Issue 20.1.