The Blue Feather

The handwritten letter had no return address. The single-page had a fine pencil drawing of a barn owl on the right side and was signed off with a bird claw mark in the end.

I glanced at the scroll and my hands began to tremble. It was my mother's handwriting. But my mother was dead. She had died two years ago, in a car accident while driving me to school.

When we left home that morning, she was wearing a pretty dress with huge sunflowers. It was two days before my ninth birthday which she had promised to spend with me. That of course was not going to happen. My mother was taking her last breath when I was being hugged by a paramedic while another one tried to pull me off her body.

I sat down abruptly on the bed, my thoughts spinning like a tornado. Could this letter be from her? Was it possible that my dead mother was speaking to me now?

I looked out the window, expecting my mother's smile and ponytail to appear. It was dark already. The street lamp was casting an orange light on the window. The bare branches of trees were dancing in the wind, making scary shadows on the walls of the room.

I hugged my knees, feeling confused, and looked up at Grandma. She smiled at me nonchalantly, sitting with her knitting in the wicker chair by the table.

We were at her house, in the countryside. I was on a fall break from the boarding school where I had been sent after that terrible day when I lost my mother.

It was just the two of us -- my grandfather had died before I was born and I never knew my father. Grandma's eyes were green, like mine. She loved to sit there, by the window at dusk, knitting and looking out into the garden. The room smelled of lilacs and was filled with books.

"Who sent this letter?" I asked quietly.

Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Maybe your mother."

I gaped at her, shaking my head. She continued to watch me, smiling mysteriously while knitting a woolly green scarf. "It could be," she said breezily."Maybe..."

"Maybe... Maybe... What?" I thought, stroking the owl artwork as if it might come to life and speak. He didn't, so I had nothing else left but to read the letter.

In my mother's familiar handwriting, I read the first, underlined sentence.

"You are more capable than you might imagine."

A few lines down, some instructions followed.

"In the old desk, there is a key. Use it to open the top right drawer and you will find a book. In that book, I have left you my story."

I dug through the desk until I found the key. The top right drawer was sealed shut with some ancient-looking glue, but when I took out the key, the drawer popped open.

Inside was a book that looked like one of those old dictionaries from school. It was entitled "The Owls."

It had a picture on the cover of an owl with its wings spread wide over a little girl.

My hands were shaking as I opened the cover and began to read.

It was a story about a little girl who's always been told she is insignificant. She believed it until one day when she sees two owls flying in the sky. They disappear, but one of them leaves behind a blue feather. That day, the little girl starts having dreams about owls and how they can help her if she ever needs them.

Suddenly a tapping sound drew my attention to the window. I could see a barn owl outside – just perched there – staring at me with those big eyes of his.

I had to get out of the house, and quickly! I went to the living room where Grandma was watching TV. She looked tired as if she'd been worn down over time like a favorite sweater.

"I'm going into town to do some shopping," I announced. "Do you have anything you want me to pick up for you?"

"No thanks, dear." Grandma turned back to the TV without another word.

There was some new energy in me, I knew that I could take care of myself if given the chance.

Furthermore, this letter had something to do with my mother and was some sort of a link to her that I always sought.

I grabbed my coat and walked down the hallway. While passing the mirror, I saw my reflection: a pale, slender girl with long brown hair and big green eyes. My heart tightened with longing to be reconnected with my mother.

I slipped out with the letter in my pocket and headed toward Main street. The trees waved their branches, rustling a few dry leaves like paper pages. The sky was devoid of any color except the faintest trace of pink on dark blue.

I was determined to follow the letter's instructions completely.

The first step was easy enough: as instructed, I went to a dollar store and bought a plain notebook and a black-ink pen, and nothing more.

The next step was slightly harder: I had to open the notebook and write my true thoughts inside. I had to put everything that was in my head onto paper, and not censor myself at all.

That was the hardest part: spilling every secret inside of me onto those pages, just as one would spill ink from an overturned bottle. But once I finished and closed the notebook for good, it felt like a weight had lifted off of my shoulders.

I went to bed that night feeling better than I had in years. And the next morning, a new letter appeared on my dresser, but this time it was a hand-written envelope with a name and address on it: Lala's House of Feathers.

On Saturday, as I was instructed, I took the letter to Lala's House of Feathers. It was a place that I knew well; Grandma always brought me there whenever she needed to pick up the fresh bird feed for her Moluccan cockatoo, Sunshine.

There was no one there when I arrived, so I waited at the front until an older woman with dark skin and silver hair came out to greet me.

"Can I help you?" asked the glow-haired queen with deep blue eyes.

"I'm here for my appointment," I answered, sounding every bit like a young lady.

She smiled and beckoned me inside. I followed her into the back room, where she told me to sit down while she got everything ready.

When she returned, she carried a tray with bottles of liquid in different colors and sizes, as well as an owl feather that was decorated with bright feathers of its own.

She told me to pick up the feather, but before I could do so, she said "Not that one. The blue one."

I looked around but saw only an array of green, pink, purple, and yellow feathers. But not a single blue one... until my eyes fell upon an intense ultramarine-color feather, which was sitting in the corner.

I picked it up without hesitation, but when I turned around to show it to her, no one was there.

Instead, a book titled "My Magic Feather" by Lala Krupinski sat on the counter where she once stood. I flipped through its pages until I found the chapter I was looking for: "Your True Self."

I picked up the book and began to read. It said that once I wrote my thoughts into my notebook, they would come to life. I didn't believe it at first, even when I read and read a paragraph that was underlined and highlighted:

"Your thoughts have taken shape; Now let them go. Words are powerful. Be careful what you write."

I almost dropped the book when a tap on my shoulder jolted me back into reality. There stood the beautiful lady from before.

"What is it?" she asked, as though she didn't know I was reading a book about her and her magic business. "Did you find your answer?"

"Yes, I think so." I handed her the book, which she carefully took from me.

She went over the same passage again and aloud, assuring me that this was indeed the answer. All I had to do was jot down what I wanted in my journal… and the magic would begin as soon as the ink dried.

"What could I wish for?" I asked, racking my brain over my newfound good fortune.

She smiled and said, "You'll think of something."

I got home that night and went straight to my desk; expecting to find a new instructional letter waiting for me there. But instead, I noticed my notebook, which had the word "Wishes" scrawled in black cursive across the top of the next clean page.

I sighed and began to write. I wrote about everything I ever wanted since I was a little girl who loved to daydream, things that made me feel happy. It didn't take long for my list to grow quite lengthy; at least by the standards of an eleven-year-old.

And while some people might write these kinds of things down in hopes that they'll be magically granted, I was old enough to know that the only way to make these wishes come true was to actually go out and get them.

After I finished writing, I put the notebook away in a drawer and went downstairs to grab a snack. Just as I opened the door into the hallway, a few feathers drifted before me out of nowhere, one of which was shimmering blue.

. . .

*Image credits:

https://pixabay.com/illustrations/bird-owl-animal-art-abstract-2552769/

https://pixabay.com/illustrations/paper-old-paper-writing-letter-184300/

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