A Little Bird Told Me

I see them all the time. Signs the universe is sending me in the direction I’m supposed to go. Little nuances that most people would overlook are like giant road signs directing my path. I like to call them my croutons. Bread crumbs left just for me, and today they brought me to this diner.

The day my brother was born, my grandpa gave me a deck of cards. I was six. I think he wanted to make me feel special. He taught me how to shuffle, and the cards became my token. I convinced my aunts to play War and Go Fish every time they came by to see the little squirt. One day, my aunt brought her boyfriend by, and he taught me my first card trick. That night, I set up my stage and performed for the whole family. My first performance made my little brother smile, and if that’s not a sign, then what is?

I let the green lights take me here. The crosswalks cleared the rest of the way, and the moment I heard my stomach growl, I saw the sign for Dottie’s Diner. I walked in and took a seat, pulling out my little black book of signs. Before I could start writing, I looked up and saw her, writing furiously in her own little black book. Her plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and home fries sits to the side, untouched. Every few moments, she picks up her coffee with her left hand, taking a sip while still guiding her pen in halting motions as if she’s manic and can’t get her genius thoughts on the page fast enough. Like the fleeting thought will fly like a bird if she doesn’t ground it in her tablet.

The waitress stops by, and I break my gaze just long enough to order, “I’ll have a coffee, and scrambled eggs, bacon, and home fries, please.” She snaps her gum, smiles, and nods, and walks away, and it’s just us, again.

My open book is half-full. It’s not my first. I have shelves of little black books filled with signs and synchronicities that helped me get to where I am today – in this diner, in this booth, waiting for the next indication that I should move closer. Maybe she’ll look up soon, maybe I’ll smile at her, perhaps she’ll smile back.

I write the date in the top-right corner of the page and note the lack of obstructions that led me here. Always take the clear path. I reference the green lights, the crossing guard outside of the elementary school who cleared the crosswalk just in time for me to glide through without stepping on the brake, the guy in the Mercedes who cut me off and almost made me turn around, but his license plate sported one word – LUCKY. What’s meant to be will smack you in the face if you just let it.

I smell pancakes and syrup, hear the clatter of dishes being dropped in the back of the kitchen, and feel the warmth of the sun shining through the window as I jot down my signs – one word at a time, as to not miss any hidden messages from my black book comrade across the way. But her demeanor doesn’t shift. She pens away. I imagine she’s writing a story about love. Or maybe it’s about hate. Either way, her passion flows onto the paper like blood through the veins. It brings her life. If her hand stops moving, so will her heart.

The waitress drops my food in front of me, flips the coffee cup over, and fills it. “Can I get you anything else?” I glance at the table, which is stocked with cream and ketchup. “No thanks, I’ve got everything I need.” She smiles before frittering off to her next task.

She’s walking fast, and I haven’t even opened the ketchup when my muse reaches out her arm to stop the server. That’s when I hear her voice for the first time, “I’ll take the check when you have a chance. Can I take this to go?” And she goes back to writing.

The swarm in my stomach starts buzzing, a panic that can’t escape without a scream, but I can’t do that here. I haven’t gotten my next sign yet. The next few minutes are crucial.

I watch her, feeling around for the creamer. My fingers find the tiny tab, and I pull it and pour it into my coffee without a glance. I dump ketchup on my plate and eat it without noticing the taste at first. It’s not until I grab a piece of bacon and take a bite that I’m overcome for a moment – taking the chance to enjoy the crispy morsel that dazzles my tongue with just a hint of maple syrup.

I continue with the bacon, like popcorn at a movie; I can’t get enough of what’s in front of me. I see the waitress, and she sets down the little booklet with a check hanging out of the side before walking towards the back – probably for a smoke break. I’ve worked in enough restaurants to recognize the patterns.

And that’s when the woman stops writing, closes her little black book, and shoves it in her giant purse, exchanging it for a stuffed envelope. She drops the envelope on the table, grabs her to-go box, and leaves without glancing at her bill. I stand the moment she turns toward the door, readying my next move.

I’ve seen envelopes like that. In movies, usually featuring some shady backroom deal. I close my book, grab my wallet, and drop $20 next to my plate, pulling another out – my last $20. As I walk past the table, my heart doesn’t even skip a beat. This is mine. I was supposed to have it. I drop the bill on the table, grabbing the envelope in one swoop with the hands of a magician, and walk to the door.

It feels even bigger in my coat pocket, where it rests behind my little black book of signs that never fail me. There’s traffic on the city street as I step outside, but all I hear is the birds singing their morning refrain. I walk in tune with the crowds that surround me, flowing with life. Every crosswalk symbol tells me to go without pause until I reach my car. The keys slide into the ignition like butter, and I take off – sans turn signal – onto the open road.

It’s not like these moments happen every day. Or these multiple moments, I should say.

The first time it happened, I was lost in the woods. I knew them well. I’d traveled the paths near my house my whole life up until that day – the day I turned thirteen. I woke up feeling different; I assumed it was my impending adulthood slowly overtaking the childhood I was more than ready to let go of. It was a Sunday, but my mom let me stay home from church, it being my special day and all. The sun was shining, and I wanted an adventure worthy of my newly matured self.

As I stepped out the back door, walking across the lawn towards the path that led to the woods of my youth, hoping to become a man, I heard birds singing all around. Beetles made that clicking sound that always catches me off guard even though I’ve witnessed it a thousand times, and squirrels danced in jubilee. There was a celebration, and I was the guest of honor.

After wandering for a while, I noticed a lack. A lack of the soundtrack the wild provided moments before. Gone were the birds, the squirrels, and even the bugs cleared the airspace like the president was about to soar by aboard Air Force 1. The sun was still there, but it was muted, which greyed the flora that remained. I didn’t recognize a thing.

I walked those paths hundreds of times. I knew how to get to the creek, the fishing pond, the skating and swimming pond, the big rock, the abandoned cabin, the rusted-out Chevy… there wasn’t an inch of that place I hadn’t explored. But on that day, it was new.

That’s what I went there for. To become a man. To have an adventure worthy of the day. My heart didn’t care; it raced. My eyes didn’t care; they dripped. It’s the only time that happened. I’ve had plenty to cry for in my life, and on those occasions, I’m not ashamed I wept. But on that day, my tears fell on their own. There was no gusto behind them. They didn’t come from my gut like those other times. It was like someone took a dropper full of tears and gently placed them atop each cheek, letting them fall.

I turned around, and there was no path behind me. Maybe I subconsciously left the trail in a search for my independence, but my parents always told me fables to keep me on the straight and arrow. I knew not to leave the path.

What could I do? I walked forward. I figured I’d eventually cross one of the trails I knew so well. Each step sounded like bigfoot stomping through the forest. Don’t worry, I didn’t see him there, but the sound of my feet stepping upon branches, leaves, rocks, and dirt was still the only sound I could hear. Every few minutes, I’d stop to orient myself, check for noises. I don’t know how many times I did that, but I counted until I reached 100.

I walked for what seemed like days, but it couldn’t have been. The sun shone in its muted tone the whole time. And if I was out there for days, people would’ve been looking for me. I was starting to lose hope until I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. A tiny yellow bird perched itself on a nearby tree, and the tears started again – this time with relief. I knew I wasn’t the only one left. The bird shone with the light of the sun like it came from within, and pretty soon, we played a game of follow-the-leader, the bird always the one jumping ahead to the next tree. I knew to follow. There was magic in the air – not the sleight-of-hand card trick magic that I had already mastered, but pure, universal magic. Before I knew it, I broke through the trees and stood in front of the pond we swam in. Dragonflies buzzed across the water; I saw pollywogs and minnows swimming near the shore. The flowers bloomed in bright colors all around. The bird had led me back to life.

A little yellow bird comes to visit me on special days, telling me it’s a day my life will change. I’ll see one on TV while drinking my coffee, or I’ll drive by a house waving a flag adorned with a golden bird. In those moments, I follow the signs.

This morning, the world seemed dark even though I’m surrounded by light.

Three months ago, my daughter was born. There were complications, but she’s healthy now. Thank God. But, yesterday, a hospital bill came in the mail. Insurance didn’t cover her whole stay. We owe $19,542. We don’t have nothing, but we don’t have $19,542. I felt crushed until I saw the little yellow bird featured in an ad on the side of my screen and decided to get out of the house and get back onto the path.

I pull into the parking lot for my favorite park, reach into my pocket, and thumb through the envelope before beginning to count. It takes me a while, my fingers fumbling on the new bills – and the tears start again – again filled with relief. Twenty thousand dollars sits in my lap. Thank the yellow bird.