“Hey, an Eastern bluebird,” I announced as I sat alone on my patio. My first wife was an amateur ornithologist. Whenever we saw a bird, she’d go into detail about it sweetly but a little pedantically. She knew almost everything about almost every bird. I could still remember some of what she’d told me. The bluebird walking near my patio was female—grayish-blue on top, orangish-brown on the chest. I hadn’t seen my ex since the divorce twelve years ago. “Hey, ‘bird’ is old British slang for ‘girl,’ ” I added, wishing my etymological knowledge could save me from loneliness.
Copyright © 2015 David V. Matthews