Three Days in January

Monday, January 29th, 2008

You and the boy are standing at the edge of the road. He is chewing on one of the knitted strings dangling from his hat. You try to remember his name. The wind whips across your face, and you burrow deeper into the thick wool of the scarf wrapped around your neck. It’s an ugly day. The soft powdery snow that came with December has turned into piles of frozen dirt. Slick rivulets of black ice stain the asphalt. Aside from the occasional hum of a car, the neighborhood is silent. A small bird flits through the trees above.

“I giorni della Merla.” The boy’s voice is low. And when he repeats the words, it still means nothing to you. But there’s a lilt in the way he speaks that makes you pay attention. You want to name the feeling it gives you. But it’s more like the taste of something acidic on your tongue. There were berries in the fridge this morning. Dark, sweet things that fit in your mouth, only to pop under your teeth, running bitter down your throat.

“I giorni della Merla. It means the days of the blackbird.” The boy says.

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

His hands clutch his backpack, and you notice he’s shorter than you. You feel like you should be annoyed that he’s talking to you. But the bus is still not here, and he’s looking at you like he’s about to reveal the biggest secret in the world.

“It’s a saying for the last three days of January. The coldest days of winter.” The lilt is still there but not as strong. He blushes. “It’s an old folktale from where I’m from.”

“Okay.”

He takes a deep breath, rocking back and forth on his heels, and starts to speak. It’s a silly story, but you enjoy watching his face open up. Vowels crash together, skidding past his chapped lips, turning “a’s” into “ah’s” and “e’s” into “eh’s.” And you keep thinking of sweet and bitter berries bursting on your tongue.

Long ago, blackbirds used to be white. January, jealous of the blackbird's white feathers, played a prank on the birds. He summoned a freezing chill for the last three days of the month. But, the blackbirds found shelter inside a chimney. On the first day of February, they emerged black as soot, and they’ve been black ever since.

In the distance, you see the blurry outline of a bus. “I feel bad for the blackbirds,” you say, digging into your backpack.

“Why? They escaped January.”

“But now, they’re covered in soot.”

“So? They’re alive.”

“Well, whatever.” You pull out a coil of white wire wrapped around a sleek silver iPod from your bag. The bus rolls up in front of you. You slip your earphones on and trace your thumb around the scrolling wheel of the iPod. The familiar “click-click” sound is soothing in your ears.

“Two more days left,” the boy murmurs.

You climb onto the bus, ignoring the squeals of the younger kids. The boy follows. You walk straight to the back. The bus is loud and warm, and your neck is already beginning to sweat underneath your scarf. You slide into the seat your friend saved for you. The boy ends up somewhere in the middle. He’s sitting alone, tracing something against the glass. You squint, trying to see what he’s drawing. It looks like wings.

Sunday, January 30th, 2012

The world is a delirious shade of white, and your head is throbbing. There are kids everywhere. Hunched over a picnic bench, you wave at your brother. He’s huddled together with his friends. You can see his cheeks, bright and flushed from here. He grins at you, turning to scoot his sled over the edge. And then he’s gone, flying through down the hill. His friends are whooping and hollering, and one by one, they follow him.

“I thought we were done with snow this year.”

You turn and see her. There’s snow splattered across her jacket. It’s gotten tangled in her hair. You’re surprised she walked over. It’s not that she doesn’t talk to you. It’s different now at school. You got taller. The way you curl your vowels has straightened out a bit, and anyway, girls seem to like it when your accent slips out. You know her friends and her friends know yours. You even hang out in the same group sometimes. But you've fallen into the habit of looking around her instead of at her. You know the shape of her, the sweep of her hair, the crooked bridge of her nose, but you never meet her eyes. Except now, she’s in front of you.

“How are you feeling?”

She saw you last night, and you can’t remember if you saw her. The party is a jumble of images in your head: a crowd of sweaty bodies, beer dripping over the counter. The acrid smell lingered in the air, seeping into your clothes. Lips wet, tongue dry, and then waves of nausea rolling over and over again.

“Not my best moment.”

“Everybody was going nuts. You were fine. It’s actually impressive that you’re up right now.”

“Blame my brother. He wanted to go sledding. Designated chaperone. Ironic, no?”

She smiled. “Same here. Except, it’s my sister.” She nodded toward a flash of pink, bobbing and weaving through the group of girls at the other end of the park.

You blink. It's too bright. The heady giddiness from the night before has turned into deep exhaustion. You want to sleep. Instead, you squint at the scene in front of you. Parents are wiping faces, picking up toddlers. Children are falling over each other unable to walk in the snow. Your brother laughs as a snowball hits him in the face.

“Feels like everything would be easier if I was still thirteen.” You didn’t mean to say it. You don’t even know what you mean. You look up, meeting her eyes, and that feeling hits you again. Like you still are thirteen, and she’s staring at you because you said something crazy. Again. Her eyes light up your insides. It feels like she's peeling back your skin. Your bones turn, blood pumps faster, nerves tingle, and then her gaze shifts.

“I get it,” she says. “Everybody is stressed out. I think it’s because we’re on this precipice.”

“Well, we are on a hill.”

"You know what I mean--the future. Everyone is finishing up college apps. There's like this anxiety in the air. Didn't you feel it last night?” She looks at you again, and you try not to look away.

“Like everyone is about to fall off a cliff.”

“Exactly.”

There is a gust of wind, and you hear the sound of wings flapping. A flock of birds has taken to the sky. They crowd out the sun, a shimmering haze of black and blue feathers circling overhead.

She’s laughing, hysterical hiccups, and then she says the last thing you’d expect her to say. It’s butchered in her mouth, but you still like the way it sounds as it slips past her lips.

“I giorni della Merla.”

You grin. “One more day left.”

Sunday, January 31st, 2016

A girl and a boy are sitting across from each other at a restaurant. She bites into a crisp slice of bread layered with fresh tomato and garlic. Olive oil coats her lips, and she dabs at her mouth with her napkin. She swallows, settles her arms on the table, and looks at him.

“So you’re saying our first date.”

“Yes, our first date.” His voice is muffled because he’s chewing on a fried ball, warm and full of cheese and rice.

“Was at the bus stop when we were thirteen.”

“Right. Because that’s the first time we actually spoke more than two words to each other.”

She shakes her head, “I don’t think you understand the concept of a first date.”

“It’s when two people meet for the first time--.”

“That’s a blind date.”

“Fine. Agree to disagree. It definitely wasn’t sledding.”

“You weren’t sledding. You were dying from a hangover if I remember correctly.”

“Exactly. How is that a first date?”

“Because that’s when we actually talked for the first time. Like shared.” She waves her hand between them, knocking over her wine glass--a dark red stain appears on the table cloth. “Oh crap, sorry.”

“I think you just ruined our first date.”

“Does that mean I should go now?”

“What did you get? We can get another.”

“A merlot. I think? The one that tastes like blueberries.”

“La Merla”

“Oh god. You’re speaking Italian again.

“Know what it means?”

She looks at him and smiles. Red wine drips onto the floor.

“The blackbird,” she says.

Outside, the wind howls. Flurries of snow lift up from the ground floating into the night.