The Glass Cocoon

The door is frozen shut. The doorknob will not turn, and the frame won’t budge when I yank on it. Oh well, I don’t need to go out anyway. Not really.

I sink into the couch and flip on the tv. … ICE STORM FREEZES ROADS SOLID… say white words on a blue stripe. But the words aren’t sliding across the screen like they usually do. The newscaster’s face above them is, well, frozen. Mouth open, he looks as if he’s caught out in the cold, the weather map behind him a swirl of purples and blues. I almost expected to see his breath right there on the screen.

I flip the TV off and back on again. His face is still frozen there. Weird. Must be the internet. Switching on my phone, the tiny waves in the top corner are gray, and so are the bars. No wifi, and no network coverage. Great. 

A tight ball swelling in my stomach, I rise to go check the wifi. As I walk toward the little UFO that is the router, its glowing blue circle turns black. Then the TV. Black. 

“Power’s out!” I say aloud. “It’s happened before. Not to worry. Surely the power company is working on it as we speak.” 

As we speak? Why did I say that? I am alone. It makes no sense. I make no sense. Breathe, I tell myself. As I walk to the window, I hear the silence. Utter, and complete, silence like I’ve never heard before. 

I look just in front of the window, examining the ice that covers every leaf of the azalea like a glass cocoon. I raise my eyes slowly. It has not snowed. The grass shimmers with a sheen like lemon icing. My eyes lift and I notice something, something in the air, framed by a branch of our old oak, weighed down by the ice that consumes it. I squint, to see better. Or to help me understand.

“It is, although it cannot be,” I say – to no one. 

“A blue jay.”

The next words, I cannot bring myself to say aloud. 

Frozen. In mid-flight.

I peer, still squinting, then shake my head and look again, eyes wide. It is still there, suspended in the silence, wings spread wide, revealing shades of soft blue that seem chosen from the same palette as the frosty ice. Nothing moves, not an icebound twig.

Bang! My palm hitting the window breaks the silence, but the stillness outside remains. The jay’s beak still points him toward a destination he may never reach. His tail turns up slightly, feathers fanned out such that I can see the gradient of blues on each one, finishing in white. 

It’s hard to tear my gaze from him. Surely he will be gone in an instant if I look away. But I do, and fetch my sketchbook, pencil, and watercolors. I drag a chair close to the window, carefully, out of habit. But he remains, motionless, on display without intending to be. Unable to escape, to hide. 

“Lucky me,” I say. My voice calms me as if someone else were speaking. I sink into my work. I can feel my heart quickening as I look at him – a miniscule part of him, actually – and then down to the paper, my pencil sketching tiny lines quickly. I repeat this moment... and moment upon moment, he is taking shape on the thick page. My pace is feverish now. Who knows when the thaw will come. And then what?

I push the thought from my mind and open my watercolors to try to recreate his glory – every shade of blue, ring of black, edge of white. 

I need to see his colors more clearly. Where does the gray become blue? Where is he hiding a hint of violet? I hurry into the room off the kitchen for my binoculars. That’s better! I can see each feather, close and soft on his back, long and elegant on wings and tail. 

The blue spreads from the tip of my brush, fading as the water takes it further down the page. It is a dance, balancing pigment and water, mixing then fixing, blending. A touch of purple upon the blues and grays of his back – yes. Hardly any water for the black line that circles his neck. Nor for the sweep of thin black across his brow, an eye lined better than any makeup artist could. Warmth spreads through my chest and I close my eyes for a moment and smile. He is nearly finished. 

I am glad for the warmth from inside, because the room is chilly now. I set down my brush and get my down coat from the closet beside the door. Pulling it around me, I turn and notice the wall clock in the kitchen. 9:25. I suck in my breath. That’s what time it was when this all began – the time stamp next to the news headline was… 9:25 a.m. And the kitchen clock runs on batteries. 

Hours have gone by. I’m sure of it. I head to the kitchen, grab a piece of last night’s pizza from the fridge and eat it cold. I turn again toward the clock. 9:25 a.m.

“What the HELL is going on!?” I yell. I stomp around the kitchen in circles, my hands on my face, on my forehead, on my temples, hoping it will all make sense soon. 

Suddenly I remember the jay. I have abandoned him. He will have fallen to the earth by now. I rush back to the living room. He is still there, in the middle of the frozen landscape, hovering without a trace of movement, in the air. I breathe deeply, and tell myself to be grateful for this moment, whatever it is. But another thought takes control of my mind – am I stuck in this moment forever? I shudder and pull my coat close again.

I pick up my brush. It’s time to paint the white tips of his wings and tail. White on white. But still necessary, for texture, and because the white tips are part of him. Checking with the binoculars, touching the paint, the water, the page. Again and again, for each wing. The tips of his tail. His face.

Finished. I sink into an armchair and lean back, exhausted. I close my eyes, and think it must really be about 4 p.m. by now. But the light outside has not changed. I get up to look at him again. A shiver runs through my body as I see him motionless, suspended, yet again.

I raise my thinnest brush, dipped in black, and sign the painting in the corner.

I look up, and he is gone.

Turning toward the kitchen, I squint at the clock. 9:26.