The day of Pajarita’s liberation came without commotion.
An ordinary day full of worries and wishes;
an itchy day of discontent but with enough music to make it bearable.
She had been walking forever; she looked at her dusty feet, then her wings.
Her wings were a burden;
they gave her a false sense of pride. “Such pretty feathers.”
She made them fan and she peeked demurely through their silver shadows.
“Who am I kidding?” She said to herself, disgusted and weary from hope.
“These things are useless.”
She came to a place where one road became two.
Both roads looked a little pretty and a little ugly.
Both had crooked houses colored pink, turquoise, adobe.
Both had bright white shirts and patched pants that flapped
and chattered in the crisp language of clothes on the line.
Yet there was a discernible fork and one road was not the other.
The dilemma was that she didn’t know which way to go.
A breeze threw its purple shadows here and there,
fragrant shade, sympathetic and offering the only comfort it could offer..
“Arru, arru. ShahhShahhShahh.” It whispered.
Pajarita marked the road she was on with a little stone
And used her wings to fly to the willow.
Suddenly the whole blue sky tumbled over on its side; the tree fell too but was limber enough to regain its balance with a gusty heave-up.
A peacock screamed and pierced the fabric of time and space: day was separated from night: and evening was as soft as silk.
The houses looked like they were keeping secrets, their windows were too wide open like someone feigning innocence; their doors were shut tight.
Pope Francis said,“The kingdom of God does not come in a way that attracts attention.”
Pajarita said her evening prayers and prepared to sleep.
She trusted that the good road would reveal itself if only she sat still.