The Feather

 The Feather

    I don't pay attention to whatever's happening on the streets. It's always the honk from the trucks, the clamors from the people, the bells from the trains and bikes, it's the same old thing every morning. I always come to my bedroom window seat with my cup of coffee and let the sun soak into my skin for a good wake up call.

    The streets on Saturday mornings are quiet and chilly. There's only track runners and Olympic cyclists outside during these times, and there was your occasional newcomer who'd come out to investigate the new city, but there was no bright-colored jacket in sight. New York knows its people; the lamps aren't on either. All it takes is the first person to step outside that Rochester comes to life. The lamps flicker on with a click and the flags blow in the fresh crisp wind. I let myself sit in silence on Saturdays. The chill gets me set on my mood for the day. 

    It was Sunday morning, and I was already at the window seat with my elephant mug and coffee, sipping away with a smile, watching the people already roaming the streets with cheerful faces and postures. They had striped scarfs around their necks and big puffy jackets slung around their shoulders. Being in Rochester for a while, and the cold doesn't get to you. It's only the prices.

    I've lived in Rochester for almost my entire life. My parents had moved here when I was just 5 and I began to fall in love with all the scenic routes and towers that were made by people from long ago. I would swing by parks with statues of famous people, and I would always stand at its base and copy its pose, imagining the statue smiling with pride. I would skip by my favorite pond down the street from my parent's apartment and say hello to the mama duck that'd waddle by with her ducklings. Sometimes I had bread in my jacket pocket from my mama and I'd feed them some from the bench. I had my happiest memory here when one of the ducklings was brave enough to let me hold it, and I named her Sandy. Sandy's not here anymore, but I'll always remember her ducklings, and her ducklings' ducklings. I gave all of them names.

    That's where I met the love of my life of 30 years, James. He was a little boy who'd attended the same school as I did, and we were the bestest of friends. I found him at the pond one day, and we instantly clicked. I'd introduced him to Sandy once, and he had excitedly introduced me to Tiger, his duckling who he'd named.

    We married in 1998 and had our first kid 4 years later. I held her in my arms as James was trying to hold his tears from falling on our daughter's face, and I'd tried not to laugh. The nurse had walked in and measured her once more and left, opening the window before she'd left. I remember that because it was similar to the window seat that I currently sit at every day in my own apartment today. The nurse bottle-fed our daughter and put her to sleep, while I took a nap of my very own. I woke up a couple hours later to find James screaming his lungs out.

    I'd almost fell off my bed and lashed out my hand at James's face when he pointed at her face in the crib and smiled. On top of my baby's head was a feather the color of silver, with lines of patented gold for the stalk. The feather rested on her head like a cap, and I had to straighten myself on the bed so the IV tube wouldn't come out of my arm. James cradled her softly and the feather refused to fall off her head. It hit me later as I realized I've seen that exact feather before. At the duck pond as a child.

    Today, the feather that was on my daughter's head reappeared on the rest of my children; my son and daughter. Audrey, my oldest, is the sweetest child I've raised, and I take her to see the pond every day. Through the Rochester winds, the sunny days, and the stormy clouds. The silver feather rests on my desk, from the day I had caught it when it showed up on my son's head after he was born. I gave it a good look and took a sip of my coffee as I took a peek through the window to check the day.

    Monday mornings weren't that bad, they don't have too many bikers on the roads or many runners, as they have children of their own heading to school. James dropped Liam at school already, and was currently downstairs singing to a popular New York beat, "Twisting Heights." Loud steps echoed on the wood as feet clamored up the stairs. A voice yelled from down the hall.

    I smiled at Aubrey's voice. She walked in my bedroom and her panicked expression was replaced with sympathy as she joined me on the window seat. She took one of my hands and wrapped her fingers around her, bringing it to her forehead with a chuckle.

    That chuckle spoke more words than a simple sentence, and my heart ached to pull her close into a tight hug and let her express her feelings into my chest so she wouldn't have to live with the burden of what she's going through.

    Aubrey has gone through the most worst moments in her lifetime being in Rochester. Emily, her sister, was able to have the purpose of supporting her during the highs and the lows, and Liam was the final obstacle. Aubrey reached behind me and plucked the feather off my desk and weaved it through our intertwined fingers. A gush of warmth encased me, and I felt like I was at home, my real home, here, next to my daughters, my son, and my husband. I'm thankful for them.