Into the Ceiling
Above the dryer, a drop ceiling tile is askew. I brush aside a cobweb and am about to put the tile back in place when I see a metallic glimmer. I reach in and find an old PBR can.
The can is warm, the label faded. On the bottom, it says “Only the finest.” I put it back in the ceiling and take out my laundry from the dryer, making sure each sock has its pair.
I pause on the stairs, the basket of clothes warm against my legs. I count sixteen ceiling tiles, each an invitation. I put the basket down and lift the tiles one by one.
Most, but not all, are empty. I find a lock of hair taped to a “first haircut” certificate, a hand-drawn poster of endangered species (all birds), and a gold ribbon that says “#1 Dad.” I take one of my clean socks and wipe the thin layer of dust off each item, then lay them on top of my clothes, along with the PBR.
For several days, the items sit on my kitchen counter. I glance at them while I cook my meals-for-one or vacuum the floor. When I’m not looking, I worry that the items will disappear.
One evening, I turn around while cleaning the dishes to look at the poster. Five birds are drawn in colored pencil, all in flight except for the one in the middle, sitting on a branch and much larger than the others. It has black feathers with yellow, red, green, blue, and purple across its back. Soapy water drips from my hands.
I start to see the bird everywhere. I see it flying across my yard. I see it in the shadow of my mandolin. I hear its calls, not unlike a crow’s, when I close my bedroom door and try to fall asleep.
Over coffee, I Google the bird. I describe its appearance, I search endangered and threatened lists. I look at recently extinct species. Nothing comes up. I search for “first haircut” certificates, Father’s Day gifts, 19th century beer. I search for ceiling tiles, laundry rooms. I search for housing records, obituaries.
When my battery dies, I take out a large piece of cardboard and several tubes of paint I got for Christmas years ago, still unopened, and paint the large black bird with the rainbow back, wings outstretched.
After the painting dries, I take it to the basement along with the other items. One by one, I put them all into the ceiling.
Michael Degnan lives on an island in Maine. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Milk Candy Review, Bending Genres, Maudlin House, and elsewhere.
