Storks

Excerpt from a Novel Manuscript, Chapter XIII

Solitude. This word seems always so significant. The word? The meaning. At least, she’s used to thinking that anyone who has achieved something in his life would appreciate and enjoy it.

So there’s no surprise she tried to avoid it lately. She woke up every morning, took a shower, dressed up, and served a nice breakfast (the habit has remained since childhood when her parents let her serve the table for the weekend breakfasts for the whole family — since then, it was her way to bring some beauty and order to the world around). But once she finished with her coffee and pancakes she would leave her place as soon as possible.

She was in her early 30’s. Tall and slim enough. Black-eyed, wearing the same black or brown oversized sweaters and jeans. An ordinary one, she would say. Attractive, many would argue. Bunch of mistakes, she would conclude about herself. No reason to be not.

She went to her fave coffee shop — the place for not being alone. Noisy, full of strangers and talks, filled with the coffee smell.

Pshh. A milk steamer. She can hear it even when with earphones on. Pshh. Another latte is ready. She found this sound tonic, never distractive. Or she just got used to it? The barista suddenly broke a cup, she jerked and the earphone dropped from her ear.

“I saw the first storks.”

She unconsciously turned to a slim British lady sitting next to her at the long high table. The woman smiled at the friend across the table.

“Where?”

“Where we went on the weekend.”

They are six. Good looking, casual but elegant, 50 to 60 years old. Two German, Swedish, British, Japanese, and American women just came by with their lattes.

“Oh, out of town,” the German lady smiled sadly, as she was ready to run out now to catch the birds. “You’re lucky,” she finished.

“Yeah, I see it as a good sign,” the British replied without noticing her friend’s sadness.

“Yeah,” they all nodded dreamily.

“What’s a stork?” the Japanese asked with kiddish curiosity, leaning towards us from the opposite side of the table.

“A bird. Black and white with long legs. They come in spring and build nests on the rooftops and trees everywhere.”

“Ah, we also have them in Japan,” the tiny lady shone out.

“They coming means spring is here,” her neighbor added with a warm smile.

“In Sweden, we don’t have them anymore. They nested in fields, ate frogs. But because of agriculture frogs were gone. And whilst we still have fields for storks, there’s nothing to eat. So they never come to Sweden anymore.” The Swedish lady looked away from her friends and gave a sad glance to her. Though she made no secret of being listening to their conversation, this look and the moment that followed seemed so exclusive that she felt ill at ease.

“But here, they are everywhere, the whole spring and summer, and then they migrate to Africa for wintering,” the British lady was now referring to her, frankly involving her into their private talk.

“Some kind of miracle,” she said uncertainly.

“They are a miracle!” the American lady picked up on at the top of her voice.

They all smiled and nodded at each other, twisting heads. “Yeah…”

They were off soon. Leaving her wonder if she would ever be like them? Have friends, be casual and relaxed. Discuss birds. Notice birds. Cherish and share. As she probably did before, a lifetime ago. She wondered if she would ever be like she was when she appreciated her life and herself.

Manuscript,
April 2019