Mockingbirds

This is Katie. In five days, I'm leaving my hometown of Bedford, Texas to take a cross-country road trip that spans twelve states and will end in Boise, Idaho, where I'm moving with my boyfriend. This is the story of that journey, and if I'm lucky, it will continue once I get to Boise. I might even convince my sister to blog along with me. I'm not sure what exactly I'll post, but I'm sure there will be pictures, memories, recipes, and book suggestions. Some posts might be poetic, but others won't be a bit. Here goes nothing.

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By the time I step outside to take my morning bike ride, the sticky June air has already reached the texture of thick soup. I clip on my helmet and begin to pedal.

I head to the park where I played as a child. It is full of memories. Here is the mud pit where my friends and I would dig in the dirt; here is the field where we would play tag and have Indian wars, ruthlessly throwing the barbed plants that grew there like tiny, vicious spears; here is the tree where I had my first kiss.

I pedal on. The bike path here weaves back and forth beneath the power lines, and the combination of the electric buzzing and the chirping cicadas creates a white noise backdrop for my thoughts. I pedal harder and faster until I am whizzing over the hills, working up a sweat.

I take a break. Stepping off the bicycle, I walk over to a nearby bench, artistically placed under a towering electrical transformer, and sit down. I close my eyes and enjoy the feeling of the summer sun burning my skin.

Above me, a mockingbird warbles from the branches of a gnarly old mesquite. His songs are varied and beautiful, but false. I open my eyes to watch him more closely. He reminds me of the people here, dressing up in the songs of others, trying to impress but never quite achieving the sophistication of the sharp northern songbirds. As a blue jay lands next to him, the mockingbird’s sweet hymns dissolve into angry, jealous squawking. He is unwilling to share. I laugh internally; yes, it is appropriate that he is our state bird.

Although the wind has the quality of a hairdryer blowing through a steamy bathroom, it feels refreshing on my sweat-drenched skin. It blows by a nearby crepe myrtle, and it strikes me how strangely incongruous this plant is: dry, thick leaves that can withstand the drought, twisted stems that can weather the sometimes fierce winds here, and delicate, feathery pink blooms that fall off at a single touch. The wind ruffles the myrtle’s blossoms, and a few fall to the ground, startling a beetle.

I spend a few more minutes under the tower and then bike back home, but the moment stays with me. I will miss the South.