A Small Metallic Sound
From the bottom of the envelope, a brass key slipped into my palm. Its tag read: “B.F. #12.” Cold and heavy, it demanded attention. A short postscript came on a separate note: “Go south. That place is still waiting for you.” South? A place? I recalled my grandmother’s old habit of using cryptic abbreviations in her notes. I pulled an aged map from under a kitchen magnet, tracing the routes with my finger. The faint metallic clink of the key echoed far louder inside me than in the quiet room.
Memory of the Blue Bird
Source : Planet Life
I realized that “B.F.” stood for Blue Finch—a small jazz bar in New Orleans. It was where my grandmother had spent her youth, where she performed the very first song she ever wrote. On the back of an old photograph was a penciled address, her smile dusted with powdered sugar from a beignet, an old trumpet hanging on the wall. She called that place her “nest.” A spot to rest her wings, and then take flight again. For the first time, I felt jealous that my grandmother had a place like that.
