Cardinals
Prologue; Tree
Once, Dad stuck Mikey in a tree. It was August, the sun was blistering, and we were sitting on the porch drinking homemade milkshakes that mom happened to be brilliant at making. The sky was this stunning blue colour, that I couldn’t get over, and there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. Like a pretty, mysterious painting. Like one that was too perfect, so you knew there was a hidden message.
Mikey was mumbling about something incoherently under his breath, his lips moving faster and faster, and I stared, mesmerized by the way his rosy red lips moved so perfectly, even when his words were incoherent. He was the smart one, the brave one – the risk taker, who never took anything for granted. Everything about him had me thinking, thoughts reeling in my mind fast, like a music tape that had to keep playing catch up. The lyrics would never come out fast enough – the thoughts would never come out fast enough. He slowed me down.
Dad put a hand on each of Mikey’s shoulders to stop him talking, and Mikey slowed down, looking up slowly at him. His eyes were another thing, I thought, taking a glance slowly, cherishing every feature of my beloved little brother. I wanted to imprint his image behind my retinas, forever there, so I could remember his innocent naïve looks. I wanted the image to burn into my mind so I’d never forget; his olive eyes, tanned skin from the last three months spent practically living outside, his height, hair, weight, the way his lips curled at the corners in an almost-smiled-today way.
For a five year old boy, he was very serious, and very knowledgeable.
Dad was muscular, strong – like rock, a marble statue almost. He was always still, always quiet and thoughtful, much the opposite of my mother, or even me and Mikey – who could talk endlessly when we were given the opportunity. There were times even then, when he’d pick me up and spin me around, despite my height and weight – much larger than little Mikey.
So he picked Mikey up, and Mikey squealed loudly, his still childish-girlish voice echoing into the hazy late-afternoon air happily. He carried him over his shoulder to the oak tree, and lifted him up to the second lowest-branch wordlessly. Mikey was still shrieking. Mom sat beside me and sipped her drink, a smile painted onto her dusty pink lips, a paper fan moving slowly back and forth in her other hand. Heat wasn’t her strong point.
I watched as Mikey finally calmed down and got curious, investigating every leave and insect crawling on the branch, swinging his chicken legs back and forth back and forth, waiting patiently for dad to come get him again. All of a sudden, the silence was interrupted by a chirp, and Mikey’s giggle. “Bird!” he shouted.
Dad looked up at the tree then, a tiny bit worried, but mostly just intrigued by Mikey’s reaction. The tree leaves fluttered a few seconds, and then the red bird took flight cheerfully, chirping still. “Bird!” he shouted again.
“Cardinal,” I had corrected him, a smile taking place on my lips, as I watched the leaves blur in with the wind again, while Mikey climbed slowly down from the tree, dad standing at the bottom of it, waiting with his arms held out in case Mikey somehow lost balance.
“Cardinal?” he questioned.
“Yeah,” I nodded, then, taking a drink of my milkshake. “Cardinal. They’re the handsome ones. They date all the other birdies. The strong ones.”
“Like you, Ger?” His eyes shined as he looked up at me curiously, hair moving in the wind delicately. “You’re strong, right?”
Even at nine years old, this question did the music-tape-effect, making me slow down. I knew the answer, buried deep inside my brain, underneath the tissue and the wires that connected to my other internal organs, No, no, no, no, I’m not. But instead, I pressed my lips into a thin tight line, and nodded. “Right, Mikes. Right.”
So he crawled up onto my lap, his scrawny little arms flinging themselves around my neck carefully, his rosy red lips planting a sloppy wet kiss on my cheek, before he nuzzled his nose on my chest. “So you’re a cardinal?” He asked softly.
“I don’t know,” I replied back. “Am I?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Cardinal, Ger-Ger.”
“Naptime, Mikey.”
Mikey was mumbling about something incoherently under his breath, his lips moving faster and faster, and I stared, mesmerized by the way his rosy red lips moved so perfectly, even when his words were incoherent. He was the smart one, the brave one – the risk taker, who never took anything for granted. Everything about him had me thinking, thoughts reeling in my mind fast, like a music tape that had to keep playing catch up. The lyrics would never come out fast enough – the thoughts would never come out fast enough. He slowed me down.
Dad put a hand on each of Mikey’s shoulders to stop him talking, and Mikey slowed down, looking up slowly at him. His eyes were another thing, I thought, taking a glance slowly, cherishing every feature of my beloved little brother. I wanted to imprint his image behind my retinas, forever there, so I could remember his innocent naïve looks. I wanted the image to burn into my mind so I’d never forget; his olive eyes, tanned skin from the last three months spent practically living outside, his height, hair, weight, the way his lips curled at the corners in an almost-smiled-today way.
For a five year old boy, he was very serious, and very knowledgeable.
Dad was muscular, strong – like rock, a marble statue almost. He was always still, always quiet and thoughtful, much the opposite of my mother, or even me and Mikey – who could talk endlessly when we were given the opportunity. There were times even then, when he’d pick me up and spin me around, despite my height and weight – much larger than little Mikey.
So he picked Mikey up, and Mikey squealed loudly, his still childish-girlish voice echoing into the hazy late-afternoon air happily. He carried him over his shoulder to the oak tree, and lifted him up to the second lowest-branch wordlessly. Mikey was still shrieking. Mom sat beside me and sipped her drink, a smile painted onto her dusty pink lips, a paper fan moving slowly back and forth in her other hand. Heat wasn’t her strong point.
I watched as Mikey finally calmed down and got curious, investigating every leave and insect crawling on the branch, swinging his chicken legs back and forth back and forth, waiting patiently for dad to come get him again. All of a sudden, the silence was interrupted by a chirp, and Mikey’s giggle. “Bird!” he shouted.
Dad looked up at the tree then, a tiny bit worried, but mostly just intrigued by Mikey’s reaction. The tree leaves fluttered a few seconds, and then the red bird took flight cheerfully, chirping still. “Bird!” he shouted again.
“Cardinal,” I had corrected him, a smile taking place on my lips, as I watched the leaves blur in with the wind again, while Mikey climbed slowly down from the tree, dad standing at the bottom of it, waiting with his arms held out in case Mikey somehow lost balance.
“Cardinal?” he questioned.
“Yeah,” I nodded, then, taking a drink of my milkshake. “Cardinal. They’re the handsome ones. They date all the other birdies. The strong ones.”
“Like you, Ger?” His eyes shined as he looked up at me curiously, hair moving in the wind delicately. “You’re strong, right?”
Even at nine years old, this question did the music-tape-effect, making me slow down. I knew the answer, buried deep inside my brain, underneath the tissue and the wires that connected to my other internal organs, No, no, no, no, I’m not. But instead, I pressed my lips into a thin tight line, and nodded. “Right, Mikes. Right.”
So he crawled up onto my lap, his scrawny little arms flinging themselves around my neck carefully, his rosy red lips planting a sloppy wet kiss on my cheek, before he nuzzled his nose on my chest. “So you’re a cardinal?” He asked softly.
“I don’t know,” I replied back. “Am I?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Cardinal, Ger-Ger.”
“Naptime, Mikey.”