"But this morning didn't begin like that," she said. "In fact, I expected you to come home drenched from that sudden rainstorm. It's sunny now, that's true, but not earlier."
"That's right," I said, "and all's sunny that ends sunny, is what I always say."
"You've never said that in your life. You're just manic."
"When mockingbirds are on the job, even the grayest of mornings accept defeat and slink off in shame. On days like today, I am on top of the world..."
"With a rainbow 'round your shoulder," she said.
"All the good day long," I said.
She regarded me with the serene patience of someone who has learned, through long experience, that this sort of thing passes.
"What's mockingbirds got to do with it?"
It was the kind of question that stops a man in his tracks, not because it's difficult, but because the answer is so enormous it requires a moment to select the correct entrance. Could it be, I wondered, that she genuinely didn't know about Mother Nature's reasons for inventing mockingbirds? I felt a small, tender pity for her, but it was short-lived because I knew that she was about to hear a marvelous story for the first time, and it was coming from me. There are few greater pleasures.
"Wonder," I said, adopting the measured tone of a man about to explain something both obvious and profound, "sit back, relax, and allow me to illuminate."
"I don't have time right now. Can we do it later?"
"We cannot do it later. The moment is upon us, and moments, like mockingbirds, will not be rescheduled. I'll make it brief. It won't carry the same dramatic effect without the elves and the dragons, but one does what one must in the moment."
"I have a conference call at ten," she said, as though that explained anything.
"Then we haven't a second to waste."
I took a deep breath while I marshalled my thoughts and prepared to give it my best effort.
"When I arrived at Brunswick Forest this morning, the eastern horizon was barricaded behind a wall of gray cloud. I didn’t approve; too austere for a coastal morning. Then, long before I saw the singer, I heard the most beautiful song I have ever encountered on a Tuesday. It was a loud, clear, jubilant melody coming from the throat of one entirely convinced of its own importance."
"Rather like the narrator," she murmured.
"Eventually I located the source: a mockingbird, stationed atop the welcome sign at the entrance to Magnolia Village, conducting a one-bird campaign against the forces of meteorological gloom. Wonder," I said, getting into the spirit of the story, "that bird was standing on tiptoe. His beak was open wide, his little body stretched to its absolute limit, every feather committed to the cause. He was singing directly at the precise spot in the sky where the sun, if it had any self-respect whatsoever, was obligated to appear."
"You may be embellishing," she said.
"He leapt into the air repeatedly with the pure physical joy of a creature who has never once doubted himself.” As I described the bird’s behaviour, I too jumped repeatedly.
“I was awe-stricken,” Poopsie. “I genuinely felt, and I want you to take this seriously, that I have never been quite so happy in all my years on this earth."
"Hmmm," she said, in the tone she reserves for statements that are either deeply true or cause for concern, and she hasn't yet determined which.
"Moments later, the clouds peeled back from the horizon, and there was the old boy we'd been waiting for: the Monarch of the Heavens, beaming down on Brunswick Forest with the satisfied air of someone who had planned the whole thing."
"It sounds like a beautiful morning. I wish I'd been there to share it with you," she said.
I was pleased by her words. They made me feel so shiny that I just stood there for a beat, looking at her smiling face and directing my best and brightest right back at her.
Finally, regained consciousness and said, "Reminds me of a story my grandmother used to tell."
"It'll have to wait," she said, standing. "Conference call."
I watched her go, and then stood there another moment in the pleasant residue of the morning — the mockingbird still conducting its campaign somewhere out in the trees, the sun entirely pleased with itself, as advertised.
The grandmother's story will keep. The best ones always do.
But if you happen to find yourself back here tomorrow, I'll share the story with you then. It involves a Tuesday, a very small bird, and the precise mechanism by which the sun gets up in the morning. My grandmother was certain she had it figured out, and honestly, after this morning, I'm beginning to think she was right.
