And Then the Geese Were Gone

On Monday, December 29th, the geese were suddenly gone.

I know it shouldn’t be a surprise. Geese are supposed to migrate, but it was December, and this particular flock of Canada geese had decided to stay in the city’s park all year long. I don’t know if the lights or electromagnetic fields confused them, or if maybe the squishy white bread that people fed them became a problem.

But for whatever reason, these geese shrank their whole lives down to the size of the city park lake. I mean, they have WINGS, and they just stayed. We got a lot of calls about them, messing up the park, chasing people, hissing and flapping at everyone except for the one old woman I’d see, crouched in her long red coat in the reeds, whispering toward the birds. People took the long way around the shoreline when she was there, for sure.

Some people wanted us to trap the geese, like that’s what the police are for. Others said that as Canada geese, the birds weren’t really supposed to be here, were they? Must have crossed some border illegally, right? The newspaper tried to sort them out, saying that they’re a federally protected species that has been around since before Canada and the United States even had a border to cross. People don’t listen though. Not much, anyway.

But then, like I said, on December 29th, those geese were definitely gone from the lake. The park felt empty without them.

The newspaper didn’t say anything about it the next day though. The news was all about the heating and food assistance getting cut, plus Medicare and Social Security not looking too secure these days. I had a wellness check at 103 Elm Street that day, eight blocks up from the park – a street without no trees named after a tree that disappeared last century. I don’t need a dictionary to look up the meaning of irony.

Apparently, the mail carrier for 103 Elm – one of those big old houses divided into apartments – noticed the mailbox overflowing. Called it in. On the porch I saw bills in a heap, all marked “final notice,” “discontinued service,” or “eviction.” Never a good sign.

I waded through and knocked. And for a second, I thought I heard a distant honk, but then I remembered that the geese were gone.

No answer. One more knock, and then I’d need to get a locksmith or landlord out here, if the landlord wasn’t some out-of-state company or someone who lived out of the country. It’s hard to say which kind of paperwork is worse – this sort of thing or the petty oddball thefts in the past few days.

First, the local market reported all of their wild rice was missing. Not diapers or formula or items you’d expect in this economy – easy to pocket and resell. But bags and bags of wild rice? Weird, right?

Then the next day, the discount department store called in to report that embroidery thread was missing. Sure enough, the bin that should have held color number 738, called Apollo’s Chariot, was completely empty. The other yellow thread? Untouched. For whatever reason, it looked like someone needed Apollo’s Chariot pretty bad.

I knocked again at 103 Elm. There was a long low hiss of what could have been an old-fashioned radiator, if the heat notice at my feet hadn’t taken effect yet.

“Hey, you in there?” I called.

There was a fluttering sound, maybe someone wearing lots of layers, and finally the clink of bolts. Then, a white head appeared above a long red coat.

“You okay?”

The woman just stared. Her dark eyes shifted light like a stormy sky.

“You okay?” I repeated.

Slowly, she stretched her neck forward like she was going to share some secret. But instead…she hissed. She hissed like it was a manifesto or something.

“Okay,” I said, backing away a couple steps so she’d know I wasn’t going to be another one of her problems. “Maybe bring in the mail next time, okay?”

She narrowed her eyes and slammed the door. Just another day here in the city.

The next day, December 31st, I was on my way down Park Street and saw Reno – homeless, heart of gold, never, ever sober. Asked me if I saw the parade heading up toward Elm the other night. No parades recently. What would we celebrate? But he insisted. There was some ringmaster in a long red cape leading a bunch of penguins waddling right up the street.

That’s the PTSD talking. And the booze.

But Reno insisted. Said there was penguin food all up Park Street to prove it. The sidewalk was crunchy like after a wedding down at Our Lady of Perpetual Help.

I handed him a coupon for free coffee. I always save them for him. Least I can do after his service. The VA does what it can, especially these days, right?

Next day, a New Year of same old, same old.

On the early shift, I headed my usual route up Park toward Elm and heard a commotion up on the roof of 103. I shaded my eyes against the low sun. But, instead of a drunk and disorderly or worse, I saw a flock of Canada geese step into the sky and rise in a swoop of strong wings and necks. Each neck was looped with a braid of gold thread, and all the braids from all the birds in their V formation were woven together into a net hanging below them. And sitting in the net, straight out of some children’s rhyme – the Mother Goose of Mother Geese – was the white-haired lady from 103 in her red coat, clutching a bag of wild rice.

The geese called to each other as they aimed south, and I could feel something wild in my veins wake up. They flowed like a river above the park, the banks, the pawnshops, the welfare office, the soup kitchens… Above the folks hungover, the ones asleep, and the few folks who never went to sleep at all.

That far figure, riding Apollo’s Chariot, grew smaller and smaller, until the gold of the threads and the red of her coat became part of the glorious sunrise, flaming in a new year.