THE MAGIC FLUTE

This July day is hot and muggy and yet I wheelchair to the florists at the end of Actor's Plaza at 43rd and Tenth. But I don't go in. Once there, the idea of buying flowers seems flaky.

So I continue on to the new park by the Intrepid across the highway. I sit under a shade tree by some tables and chairs and a kind and warm woman with a small, obedient dog, points to a parakeet hidden at the top of the tree. There's a smiling Spanish man sitting beside me and some fat German tourists standing nearby.

We stare at up the bird, changing our positions to get the best possible view.

We then begin a small conversation of what the bird is called in our native languages.
Someone mentions a word that sounds like the  word  Papageno, and I mumble to the warm and kind woman, who is clearly our leader, "isn't that the name of a song in Mozart's "The Magic Flute"?

We kick that question around and then break apart.

I continue to look up to the bird, escaped - no doubt, and try to form a metaphor relatable to me but  decide we're not really in the same boat.

I wheel away to the other end of the park and duck under an evergreen to read "Howard's End".
I can hear the parakeet near me in the evergreens but I can't spot him.
But it's hot and I get sleepy and go home. As I leave, the bird soars away back to the other end of the park.

Later in the evening, Mattie comes over and we discuss possible treatments. These discussions are helpful but what I really need is a full time partner to implement these ideas because I simply do not have any energy.

The evening disintegrates, as it often does, with me calling out requests to straighten the bed, empty the trash, etc.