By Grace Schwenk
Older sisters never wait. Peeking out the window, I see Katlynn and Frankie are already
halfway down the driveway. Panicking, I reach for my coat, and yank it off the hook. I wince as
the fabric catches and rips a three-inch hole in the sleeve. Maybe Mom will patch it up this
evening. Shrugging my shoulders, I pull it on, throw my backpack over one shoulder, and push
the squeaky screendoor open.
“Hold on!” I yell, running towards them with a trail of white feathers whirling and
twirling behind me. Katlynn, the oldest, stops to wait when she hears me coming. Frankie, the
middle, quickens her pace. Katlynn latches onto her hood and pulls her back.
I almost missed the bus yesterday. I had to go back to the house because I forgot
something. Katlynn asked the bus driver to wait for me. It wasn’t a big deal or anything. We
were only ten minutes late for school. Frankie tattled on me the first chance she got. Mom’s
mouth got all tight and small when she found out. She only gets thin lips when she’s furious.
That’s when you know you’ve really messed up this time and better watch out. That’s why I was
surprised when Mom only shook her head and said: “You girls need to stick together.” Maybe
she was just tired instead of angry. She’s been working nights since Dad left. She’s usually still at
work when we leave for school. That’s why we have to walk to the bus stop alone now.
I’m almost to my sisters when I trip over one of my untied shoelaces and go tumbling
across the rocks. The zipper on my backpack opens and all the dolls I’m not supposed to bring to
school scatter. Everything is dizzy when I stop rolling, there’s a sharp pain in my right knee, and
I can taste blood in my mouth.
“Are you okay?” Katlynn asks, suddenly at my side. She helps me sit up straight while
Frankie goes around collecting my dolls.
Hot tears sting my eyes as I shake my head no. I look down to see I’ve ripped yet another
hole in my favorite pants. Mom just patched these up last week with little red hearts. The fall
ripped the heart right in half.
“No bleeding, broken bones, or crying,” Frankie says, joining us with the dolls in her
arms. She places them in my backpack and zips it shut.
“You know you’re not supposed to bring those,” Katlynn says.
“I know,” I say.
Dad gave us the dolls right before he left. He said his leaving was a good thing. That we
would have twice as many dolls at Christmastime.
A silence falls between us. I glance across the rolling green field towards the bus stop. A
brown bird with a yellow belly lands on the barbed wire fence in front of us. He puffs his chest
and lets out a morning melody.
Chee-wee
Chee-wee
Chee
“It’s a school bus bird!” I say, lighting up.
“That’s a meadowlark,” Frankie says.
“It’s the first one I’ve seen this season,” Katlynn says, she takes my arm and loops it
around her shoulder. Frankie grabs the other and they pull me to my feet.
“Where do the widowstarks go?” I ask.
“Don’t quote me on this,” Katlynn says. “Mom told me. You’ll have to check with her.
The meadowlarks always chase the sun when the first snowflake falls. Their delicate wings
weren’t made for these cold Montana winters. She says they follow the light somewhere south.
They stay there, where it’s warm and bright, until the lilacs bloom. It’s called migration.”
“And they always come back?” I ask.
“Always,” Katlynn says.
“Do humans migrate?”
“Some do.”
“Do they always come back?”
“I don’t know.”
Katlynn helps me put my backpack on and Frankie tousles my hair. We continue down
the driveway towards the bus stop together just like Mom told us to. The meadowlark lets out
another melody, more flutelike this time.
Humans may not always come back, but at least the meadowlarks do.
へ
The yellow light still flashes every three seconds. I’m parked at my old bus stop on
Highway 10 West. Above it hangs the single yellow light that used to guide us down Dusty Lane
on dark mornings. I contemplate putting the car in gear and driving far away from here. I don’t
know why I came back. Curiosity, perhaps. I haven’t been back since we moved out ten years
ago. My mom listed the house, packed the boxes, and hightailed it down the driveway. I looked
back to see all the rocks the tires kicked up behind us. I think I was the only one to steal one last
glimpse. Heaving a sigh, I open the car door and step out onto the road. The sun feels gentle on
my face. It’s one of those rare days in early March bright with the promise of light. Shielding my
eyes, I cast my gaze down the road, which still looks the same, though the potholes are darker.
As if they have patched them again and again because that’s cheaper than resurfacing the whole
road.
Shaking my head, I start walking down the road, careful where I step, so as not to kick up
the wrong memories. I pass the Dusty Lane pole that Frankie licked one winter morning even
after Katlynn told her not to. I chuckle, remembering how I had to sacrifice my thermos of hot
chocolate to get her tongue free. It bled for hours after that. On my left is the little rain culvert
that Katlynn crawled in during hide and seek. She met a skunk in there and had to take a
three-hour bath in tomato soup. She cried the whole time, thinking the soup might turn her hair
red. It did, but we all told her she looked better as a redhead than a blonde. It was no use. She
wore a hat until the red faded. I wince as I pass Mr. Boehlke’s crooked mailbox. I begged my
Mom to let me use the riding lawnmower instead of the heavy one you have to push. She finally
relented and was so proud of the fine work I did on our yard, that she told me to do Mr.
Boehlke’s while I was at it. I was feeling good, got a little too confident, and put in high. I drove
right into his mailbox and hightailed it out of there before anyone noticed. Turns out Mom did
notice. Her thin lips came out for that one. I pass the flat spot where we used to run a lemonade
stand. Mr. Boehlke was our only customer. He paid us with Monopoly money instead of real
cash. There’s the loose spot in the barbed wire fence, the basketball hoop, and finally, our old
driveway.
The giggles of three little girls echo down the dirt path. My eyes follow the ghosts down
the driveway to what used to be our home. The red house with the green roof. I let out a small
gasp when I see it. This isn’t the house I remember. Someone bought it, but it doesn’t look like
anyone has lived here for years. The windows are boarded up, the screen door is missing, and
there’s a piece of green tin flapping in the wind. The lilac bushes, a chaotic mess of purple and
green, haven’t been trimmed since my Mom left. The whispering willow is taller, nearly
touching the power line, with green vines growing every which way. The lawn is overrun with
yellow dandelions and the field is full of Fireweeds.
I remain frozen at the end of the driveway, not daring to step any further. I’m afraid that if
I do, all the good memories of my childhood will get tangled in this mess. It needs new windows,
a paint job, someone should trim the lilacs, mow the grass, order a new screen door, and get that
willow tree looking whimsical again.
The house seems forgotten. I’m afraid, that before long, the three little girls who used to
run barefoot about this yard will be forgotten too. That we’ll be left behind. Overgrown.
Tears well up in my eyes. I blink them back down. No bleeding, broken bones, or crying,
You know the rules.
Just then, a familiar friend calls to me from the top wire of the gnarled fence. Turning, I
see a female meadowlark staring at me. She’s all gray without any yellow on her belly. She lets
out a soft song that goes something like chee-wee chee-wee chee. The tears come flowing now.
It’s been a long time since I last heard a school bus bird. I smile, remembering how Katlynn once
told me they always come back.
I realize now that maybe it’s a good thing humans don’t always come back. That the
house can fall apart and be reclaimed by nature. That maybe one day it will crumple, turn to dust,
and from it another weeping willow might grow. Creating more habitat for the meadowlarks to
sing from. Because meadowlarks, as we know, always come back.
About the Author:
Grace Schwenk is a writer from the Bitterroot Valley of Montana. When not writing, she can be found getting lost in the mountains with her pack of hiking chihuahuas.