Do you like her? Jorge asks.
Who? I say. But I know who.
Lisa. I mean it seems like you do.
I love her, I say. You know,
like a sister, I mean.
But what if I do?
What if this
is what love feels like?
Do you see that? I ask.
I point to a dark shape in the sky.
A bird soars, black against the gray fog.
I reach into my backpack,
pull out Mysterious World,
start to flip through its pages.
There are so many giant birds
in mythology that appear
when there are storms or fog.
But then I remember something
and I stop, close the book.
I think about how when I was little,
my father loved taking me
to Central Park on Sunday mornings
to look for birds.
I wish he could see this one.
Jorge, I say,
where’s your dad?
I don’t know, he says
between breaths.
I never met him.