Sometimes birds fly to the girl’s window. Big black birds. Birds that absorb the fire in the sunlight but have only the darkest slivers of night beneath their feathers. Birds whose slivers of night drip from the gray skies to bustling streets below, gathering in little trampled pools on the sidewalks. Birds who, when the girl is walking, leave one black father to settle gently on her head, ingraining itself in her curls as if she had placed it there to match a nonexistent gown worthy of even Audrey Hepburn. Birds whose caw resonates throughout the city, tapping every cracked window of every apartment building caked in the dirt of a thousand taxis that pepper the rugged streets of the city. Birds who believe that they are 37th Street royalty. The birds who know. 

Sometimes the girl lets Stevie Wonder spill out of the muddied windows. “I Just Called to Say I Love You,” and “Isn’t She Lovely” combating the stark harshness of the birds’ screeches. Sometimes it looks as though the girl can see the music. Like the socks and skirts she sends out into the smog on bird-infested clothing lines match the trumpets of “Sir Duke.” Like the birds with night beneath their feathers are flamingoes and parakeets, as vibrant as Mardi Gras. As classic as Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Like she is Ella Fitzgerald, and her voice could bring thousands to their feet. Sometimes the birds listen. Sometimes they do not.

Sometimes when the days are cold, the girl dances. Puts on Nat “King” Cole and The Jackson 5 and dances in the dim light of her dull apartment. Sometimes her feet rise above the floors and her dress floats around her, like the stars do the moon. Sometimes she is like the sun when she dances. Her cheeks are aglow like stage lights, and her dreamy eyes are like tiny bits of amber. Her hands fly in the air, reaching towards the sky and heaven. Reaching like there is gold suspended in midair rather than a ceiling with peeling paint and water stains. Reaching, reaching. Always reaching. For a moment, one might almost believe in that nonexistent gold. The girl smiles.

Sometimes the girl paints. Never does she buy black. Only crimson, peony, turquoise, and daffodil. Only the colors with the odd names and the odd tints and odd purple cans at that odd little paint store on the corner of 37th street. She paints flowers. Paints pure sunshine, without smog and taxis and feathers littered in its glow. Sometimes she and her sister paint each other. Slinging the rainbow on each other’s mahogany skin. Pink lands on lips, and red on cheeks. Sometimes they feel like movie stars. They have makeup, these two girls. Blush and lipstick straight out of Hollywood. After the battle they lie on the floor sucking on popsicles and watching stickiness slide down their fingers, along with the crimson and peony and the turquoise and the daffodil. Sometimes, they wish that they could paint the birds with night under their wings.

Sometimes the old woman watches the girl’s window. Sees all of this. Sees the birds with night beneath their wings and the clothing lines and Mardi Gras in New York City. Sees the crimson and the peony and the turquoise and the daffodil. Sees the dress and the gold suspended in midair. Sometimes she wonders. Wonders why the girl paints and dances. Why she still feeds the birds. The old woman peers through the nursing home window. Sees the barren blackness of that 37th street apartment window. Sees the emptiness. Only the birds are left. The old woman knows why. She still remembers. Remembers the birds and being Ella Fitzgerald, seeing music on clotheslines and cheeks aglow like stage lights. Remembers painting the smaller girl and watching popsicles combine with the crimson and peony and turquoise and daffodil. Remembers living that life well. Sometimes, when she misses the girl, she watches the window. Others see darkness. The old woman sees gold. She sees it with such belief that for a moment, one might almost believe that it were there instead of night. But the girl is not there. She and the old woman are one. The one who the birds call every so often. Ana.