Feathers
By Leslie Painter

Trails of grey smoke twirl around my grandfather’s head.
The index and middle finger of his right hand
Stained permanently such a dark yellow that they are almost orange.
The skin on his neck now sagging where once it was taut.
His left hand twisting the unkempt hair of his eyebrows.
Head dipped slightly toward the dining table
As if he were studying something, but seeing nothing.
His once vibrant blue eyes now a cloudy and dull grey.
Bright lights overhead and sunlight streaming in;
But he sits in total darkness.
I sit across from him, now a woman in my late thirties,
While memories of my childhood flood over me like waves in a storm.
I remember dragging a rickety wooden ladder under one arm
With one of my grandmother’s good feather pillows under the other;
To the center of my grandparent’s pasture.
I would set up the ladder carefully
As to not pinch my fingers in the rusted hinges,
Then I would tear open the pillow cautious to not send them scattering in the wind…
Not yet anyway.
I would gingerly climb the ladder,
Tightening every muscle as I went to maintain balance.
Patiently I would take one feather at a time,
Hold it high above my head and release it when the wind was right.
It would float in the breeze, gently carrying it to and fro.
Out of nowhere the Swallows would appear;
First one or two and then growing to ten and sometimes twenty.
They would dance and circle above me,
Pirouetting into position, waiting for just the right moment
To swoop down and pluck a feather out of the air;
Building their nests one feather at a time.
I would spend hours with them until the sky turned orange
And I could barely make out their little black silhouettes doing the tango above me.
Grandpa searches around the table for his chipped ashtray,
Bringing me back to the present.
Finding what he is looking for with his left hand
He follows with his right to snuff out the butt that has long since burned out,
He moves cautiously assuming it is still lit.
Silently he reaches into his shirt pocket,
Pulling out an envelope.
He extends it to me, but I have to strain to reach it;
His aim is slightly to the left these days.
I open the envelope revealing ten crisp hundred dollar bills.
“What’s this?”  I ask.
“Feathers for your nest.”  He answers.