Christmas. Driving home from my father’s, after an awkward day where he pretends to be himself, but isn’t quite, I spot a flock of starlings twisting over the vineyards just out of Calistoga. It is a miracle I have wanted to witness since the moment I was aware such a thing was possible. Starlings fly in a mass of swirling, morphing shapes, more like a smoke cloud than a congregation of creatures. We pull over, I get out of the car and I experience at least five minutes of exquisite sound and beauty that is almost indescribable. I thought I touched the record sensor squarely and soundly enough to start the iPad recording, but I find out, as I notice the starlings beginning to drift further and further from me, I didn’t. Instead I record the moments in between the moments I actually wanted and record several yards of asphalt road instead. The day has been awkward and sad, a chick flick’s movie of the week rather than the delightful children’s story that would be the ideal. The starlings have been the only moment full of surprise and joy.
A gift forever locked in my head, not on digital or analog medium.
