Birds are stupid. What is there to say about birds?
Every day I sit next to Grandma and do my homework at the nursing home. My mom envisioned this as a sort of intergenerational bonding time, but it feels more like punishment, especially since it’s about a hundred degrees in here all the time. Plus, Grandma’s gone a little funny in the head, and all she wants to talk about is birds.
I’ll be sitting there, doing my algebra or whatever, and she’ll hit my arm and screech, “BIRD.” And then I’ll look up and there’ll be some stupid boring little brown bird.
When I complained about the bruise on my arm to my mom, she said I should discuss birds with Grandma. “You can’t discuss things with Grandma,” I said. “She’s loopy.” But my mom only handed me a book with the title Guide to Birding.
The next day, when Grandma whacked my arm and announced the presence of a member of an avian species, I looked up to identify said member. “Grandma, that’s a sparrow,” I informed her. Then I looked closer.
That stupid bird was ramming its head into the glass window. Just over and over and over. I got up to try and figure out what was wrong with it. I tapped at the glass some, but that bird just kept going. After a while, it turned around and flew off, wobbling through the air.
“What a dumb bird.” I turned around to find Grandma asleep.