May 2004 Issue - Essay # 1
Sponge
Bob & the Bird
By Julie
Ann Shapiro
If you have to wonder about
wonder, it was never there. I
know, the workweek is still
in my soul. I force myself to meander
into a coffee shop, throwing my watch in the car, promising myself, to
not even look where it lands. I keep the promise. The watch stays safely
hidden in the folds of the week. I sit outside in the
sunshine. A sparrow hops on my table. We stare at each other. A woman,
two girls, and a dog sit down at the table next to mine. The girls’
faces look carved out of chocolate, the twinkle in their smiles, like
whipped cream. Their laughter is contagious. Their Mom goes inside to get
them food. The girls introduce me to their dog Charpey: a black dog,
with the warmest eyes, like Oreo cookies. They tell me Charpey got hit
by a car. I look at my feet. The girls tell me, he loves running and
still plays catch. They show me their sandals, with smiley faces on the
inside. They tell me, they are Sponge Bob, the cartoon. One girl tells me she just
turned eight. I ask how it’s different from being seven. She says,
“I am tall.” I admire the way she says a year in one sentence--the
poetry, the symmetry. I wonder if she sees the beauty in her words. The mother returns to the
table, notices the girl, sitting at my table in the sunshine. She thanks
me for amusing the girl and suggests they return to their table. The
girl says, “It’s cold over there.” She doesn’t want to
leave
anymore than I want her to go, but she does, and she leaves magic in her
wake. My salad arrives. I put my
bread on a napkin. Birds sit in her chair, telling me about their feet,
but they are not Sponge Bob. They are small, dainty toes. They use them
for balancing and landing, I learn. One of the birds hops on the table,
close to the bread; it takes a bite, then another. I tell the bird, “You’re
not shy.” “Wonder never is.” Another bird lands on the
table and takes off with the bread, bringing it to a group of eight
sparrows waiting just steps from my feet. I laugh and watch them peck at
the bread. They eat it like I do: the inside doughy part first, then the
crust. I say what the girl who’s
eight taught me, “I am tall. I am eight." When there’s time to
see wonder, I am tall. I look up to thank the girl,
but she is gone.
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Author's Biography Julie Ann
Shapiro is a freelance writer. She won second place in Writer Online's
"My First Crush Contest", April 2004.
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Essay
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