Monomorphic Birds by Cleo Blanding

It was the perfect sweet spot in fall–that crisp wind that chilled you just enough without yet warranting a big jacket to lug around. As I meandered ritualistically around my street’s cul de sac, I found myself looking dumbfoundedly at the pastel plum-terracotta sunset with one of my hands fidgeting in my cardigan pocket, the other holding the phone I was speaking into.

"Hey Dad, can I ask you a question?”

"Of course. Anything.”

“Ok, but, it's kind of important though, and so, if you need to think about it first, we can call again later or something?”

“What is it?”

“Ok, well, so you know that book Mom gave me, An Incomplete Education?”

He then told me that yes, he remembered reading it in college and that he thought it was well written and oh my god it’s been a while since we read anything together, we have to pick Harry Potter back up.

I talked about how I too was enjoying An Incomplete Education so far. I stalled the next part of my question by asking if he was reading anything else good. I ripped leaves in my pocket and kicked dirt along the road.

“Why is it important?” I asked, finally. “Like, to learn? You can never know everything. The only benefit is to feel superior, but I don’t feel that way. I just feel sad.”

He asked me what I meant. I lied and said I didn’t know. He asked if I was intimidated around growing up and how I was doing stress-wise. I told him fine. He said I was mature and curious, and, though I wanted to tell him that was the problem, I only mumbled a thanks.

“Well,” he said after some silence, “social lubricant, for one.”

I thought some, and nodded even though I realized he couldn’t see it through the phone call.

“And pride. Doesn’t it make you happy to understand the world better? It doesn’t have to be to understand better than someone else. You’re thinking too big. One fact at a time, ok?”

“Mhm.”

“Hey!” He said, voice suddenly bouncy. “Did you know monomorphic birds spend equal time raising the broods?” I laughed at that. This was by far my favorite fact that I knew, and I told it to anybody who would listen. Once I texted it without context to a friend when I aced a math quiz. I didn’t know why I liked it so much. I doubted it would come in handy at all in my life.

“No, I didn’t know that,” I teased. “Whoever told you that sounds really smart.”

“He is,” he said. “You are.”

"Yeah. I know."

It was all I could think to say before changing the topic, saying that I loved him, and

hanging up, feeling bad that I didn’t say more. I cried for a while, and then walked home.

Sleep eluded me that night. I waited for a long time, cursing and flipping my pillow over and squeezing my eyes shut to no avail.

Sighing, I leaned over my bedside table to turn on my lava lamp, and then got An

Incomplete Education from the bottom drawer. Wiggling my feet out from under my Wheaten Terrier sleeping at the foot of my bed, I opened the book to the next section–an extensive profile on Machiavelli–and began read aloud to myself.