Mockingbird

From the age of six, I grew up in the same neighborhood I returned to many years later, where I raised my own children, and where I still live now. I’ll never forget the sultry late spring and early summer evenings of my youth, and in particular, the glorious mockingbird that sang throughout the night along with the friendly, comforting whirring of the crickets right outside my bedroom window. I also have to remember how my charming mother (God rest her soul) would begin to plot against this same innocent variety of bird—at this very time of year—because, as she always told us, it would keep her awake all night. I seem to remember how she would even get up out of bed, go outside in the middle of the night and throw things at the poor, unappreciated serenader (although this part could just be my imagination). As I hear my mockingbird singing right now, I swear he is speaking directly to me, helping me bring back the uncomplicated joy and excitement of my youth. And, contrasting with my mother’s sensibilities back in those days so long ago, helping me to fall into a wistful and peaceful slumber, or at least so I hope.