Two birds were squabbling in the tree above me. I paused in my walk. They were some kind of black bird, and they were making a racket. As I stood beneath the outstretched arms of the tree, watching this unfolding drama, I imagined it was probably like that conversation I overheard from my parents.
Two birds squabbling over spilled iced tea.
Mom getting impatient with dad. Dad trying to appease.
One bird flies off somewhere while the other tries to clean up the mess.
Mom is losing patience with dad.
I recall an argument S.M. and I had the other night. We weren’t those blackbirds, but I was losing patience.
I didn’t fly off somewhere and leave him to clean up the mess.
Instead, I stayed and we worked through it in a calm manner, much like that sparrow over there who whistles a cheery tune. He processes things different than I do, and we both know it’s not worth crying over spilled ice tea.
We love each other too much.