Black and white photograph of a basketball hoop covered with snow
Shooting Cold © Tyler McCurry

All the Ordinary Birds

Beth Sherman

When my father escaped our house, he turned wild. He ran until the blisters on his feet pinked raw. Ate cheese balls dipped in barbecue sauce for breakfast. Danced on tabletops in bars, shaking his hips even when no one else heard music. Sent me blurry pictures of the ocean or the gas station on Route 13, with a smiley face sun pasted behind it. Showed up at his plumbing supply job in yesterday’s slacks and tie, his shirt rumpled and sweat stained. Cycled through men – bald, short, fat, mustached, broke, drenched in cologne or smelling like detergent – it didn’t
matter.
When it was his turn to take me for the weekend, he arrived barefoot, with bloodshot eyes. Be yourself, kiddo, he advised. Uninhibited, unapologetically yourself. Since I had no idea who I was or wanted to be, his words landed on the pile of fries we shared. We salted them, chewed. He’d escaped from captivity, that lonely hellhole, and wanted to liberate me, too. Problem was I felt bad for my mother, who sat alone in the dark in what used to be their bedroom staring into the mirror. I missed our family, the easy shape of it. The sturdy triangle he’d untwisted into a thick straight line headed away from us. He and I still had birding. We’d go to the park across from his sad apartment, which was always messy, on the brink of collapse. The park had a dirty fountain, attracting robins and mourning doves, jays and great blue herons. All the ordinary birds. Too common for our life list. Sometimes, I’d train my binoculars on him instead. Study the bristle on his chin, the way his jaw sagged when he talked. Up close, he looked less sure of himself. Less feral. Though his feathers were iridescent – incredulous fuchsia, smashed blueberry, purple longings – the colors of hope.

Beth Sherman’s writing has been published in more than 100 literary magazines, including Portland Review, Tiny Molecules, 100 Word Story, Fictive Dream, and Bending Genres. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024. She’s also a Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, and multiple Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached at @bsherm36 or https://www.bethsherman.site/