“How are you feeling, Squeaks?” Momanita asks me.
A stone got me. A heavy stone that won’t move, I squeal.
A stone didn’t REALLY get me. It just FEELS like a stone got me. There’s not much difference.
I mostly understand hootman talk. Momanita mostly knows cockatiel speak. She’s the only hootman who does.
“You look sad,” Momanita swings open my rolly nest door.
My feet scoot me to the mirror. My crest falls. My body curls to make me small, I feel small.
“You have the gloomies, Squeaky Beak,” she rubs my neck.
My neck curls so Momanita could rub the good spot,
“I had the gloomies. It felt like a rock holding me down,” says Momanita. “Maybe you caught them from me.”
My beak gives Momanita’s finger nibbles, The gloomies DID have Momanita. Her gloomies pulled her to the sofa. She forgot to give me millet. They pulled her mouth down, She didn’t sing to me. Momanita is in my flock. Cockatiels know how their flock feels- even cockatiels who can’t fly. Even cockatiels who live in a rolly nest and not in Australia.
Momanita’s gloomies grew. They grew so big they tumbled off the sofa. They sneaked into my rolly nest. Then the gloomies got me.
“I’m sorry for my bad mood, Squeaky Pie. Sometimes small disappointments gang together and make sadness. I felt sorry for myself.”
No millet, no singing, disappointments got me, too, I squawk.
“Bad moods make trouble. Bad moods try to change all the moods around them to bad moods. I think that happened to you.”
Momanita rubs my belly. My feet step onto her finger.
“Gloomies and bad moods slump me on the sofa. They huddle you in a cage corner. They want us to do nothing.
Momanita invites me onto her shoulder. I hop on.
“Maybe I can’t hike outside today. Maybe I can’t visit my friends tomorrow. Maybe someone was rude to me.”
Momanita climbs the stairs, My claws hug tight to her sweater.
“I can’t do everything, but I can do something,” says Momanita. “We’ll do what we can and shoo the bad moods and gloomies away.”
Momanita settles behind her computer. She pulls up the shade. The sun shines on us.
“I can write.”
I hop onto the desk. I squeal and squawk and explain what to write.
Tell everyone about gloomies and bad moods. How bad moods make trouble. How gloomies sneak around. How to make yourself do something even if you don’t feel like it. That doing something shoos them away, I squawk.
She listens and taps the keyboard and writes. Then she reads it to me.
The coos get me. It’s exactly what I want her to write!
I THINK it’s exactly what I want her to write! I can’t be sure . . .
because I MOSTLY understand hootman talk and Momanita MOSTLY knows cockatiel speak.