Return of the Night Owl

Jack had frosted the window panes with swirling, frozen paisley. The late afternoon sun colored them in peaches, purples, and cobalt blues. It was cold by the windows, but it was warm near the floor heating vents, which pushed hot, dry air into the room. I sat on one with my blanket wrapped around me to trap the heat in. I was the adult in the house; I could do what I liked.

Reflecting on the week’s excursions -- I’d been taking long walks in preparation to hike in Northern Scotland -- I considered the greatest beauty of the week, a smooth, bluish-purple stone, which I’d found lodged in my right shoe tread.

It looked dingy at first, but when I brushed the dirt off, it began to glow. It was now sitting in the palm of my hand, as I rubbed it like a wishing stone.

What could I wish for? I had all the basics; a roof over my head, food and drink, emotional and physical health and love, clothes to keep me warm...

I remember a story I’d read to my son, Daniel, where the main character has his wish granted to become a rock. Was it wise to even wish on the pebble? Just as long as I didn’t wish myself to become a rock. I thought carefully… Maybe my wish should be for others… but what fun would that be?

I thought of the stories waiting to be read to Daniel, on his ‘stories to be’ shelf. At 8, Daniel is very into all things magic. He’s been begging for me to read Harry Potter to him. He has also been begging me for a white owl. “Hedwig, Harry Potter’s owl, is white.” I don’t know where he learned this, but after having read the whole series twice, I made a deal with him that for every chapter I read, he had to read a page. He hasn’t been the best reader, so I figured I have a year or two to go, but now his teacher has informed me that he has all of a sudden become a voracious reader. The way he read tonight, I know he’s almost ready. I only have a few more years before he won’t want to read with his mother anymore.

The buzzer goes off. I’d been baking cinnamon buns for no reason other than I loved the sweet taste of my mother’s recipe, handed down for generations through the women in the family. I am forty seven and don’t plan to have more children. Daniel is my only child. I’d made up my mind that he would get the recipe, even if he wasn’t female.

I go to the oven. The smell of sweet, bready goodness permeates the air. They came out perfectly! As I set them on the counter to cool, a white, feathery flash flies by my window. I rush out the side door, in my bare feet, just in time to see a white owl, to hear an owl calling for a mate.

I wonder where it’s nesting? This brings me back to the stone. Where’d I put it? It wasn’t in my hand anymore! Just then I hear Daniel’s voice, “I wish I were a white barn owl,” the sound of the pebble dropping to the floor, of my voice crying “no!” and a barn owl’s response!

It flies through the room and out the door, which is standing open, held by my foot! “Daniel!” I scream. Daniel screeches a response. Two owls land on a low branch of the old oak tree in our front yard.

I feel completely desperate! “Daniel, what did you do??” “Screech!” “Daniel, come back!” It screeches another response. I dash inside to find the stone. It’s nowhere to be found! I go to where I’d had it last, pull back the blanket I’d been wrapped in, and there it is, sitting a foot below, at the bottom of the vent with other things that have fallen down it: hair clips, gum, rubberbands, and a jelly bean.

I march to the kitchen doodad drawer, open it, and begin to ransack it, seeking for anything that might unscrew the vent grate. No luck. I go back to the vent and peer inside. There it sits, mocking me from a foot away. Do I have a hanger that I could use to pull it out… maybe stick some gum at the end?

I run to a closet to find one single metal hanger, grab it, open it, and measure it with my eyes. It may be too short. The last thing I need is another thing stuck down there! I chew my last stick of gum, stick it to the end of the hanger, and dangle it through the vent. The gum sticks to a rubber band, a hair clip, then to the jelly bean. It feels like that claw crane game, always getting something but nothing I want! The gum is now dusty, barely sticking to anything except more dust. It falls inches from the other piece of gum. A red and an orange piece of gum sit side by side, at the bottom of the heating vent next to the stone.

—

The air duct man came, but the stone evidently only had one wish to grant.

I wait each mating season for the best glimpses of Daniel, binoculars ready, listening for the swoop of his wings or the hissing to mark his territory. He often brings up a few fledglings, who fly away, unlikely to return.

I walk every day in the same places I have always walked, checking my shoes for any remnants that might reverse this hapless event.

Now and again he stands on a low branch and wails to me. It breaks me up inside.

It’s just getting dark out. Jack’s color palette has changed to whites, blues, and black.