Page 32 of Grouch-ish

Pear hushes. “We must be very quiet.”

“Because we’re hunting wabbits,” I whisper.

Pear scowls which proves she gets the reference. Elmer Fudd would be proud.

Once we cautiously step onto the gravel drive, Pear walks gingerly, her pace slow as she circles the barn. The moment feels like we are kids playing ghosts in the graveyard or hide and seek, sneaking up on an unsuspecting friend.

Pear pauses again when she hears the distinct cry.

Ah-who-who-who.

The hoot is throaty and strong. His call sounds weary but wise.

“He’s staking his claim,” Pear whispers. “He’s warning other owls to stay away.”

“Really?”

“Or he could be calling to a mate.”

“You seem to know a lot about owls.”

“I told you, my dad loves them.” Pear turns her head to face me. Her hands are stuffed in her coat pocket while her jacket remains open.

Stepping closer to her, I shift her and zip up her coat, tugging the hood over her head. She tips her head back and looks up at the sky.

“I love nights like this,” she states quietly, as if she’ll disturb the absolute silence. “The moon casts everything in a blue light.”

I hadn’t noticed, too curious about the owl, and concerned about following Pear.

Turning my head, I see what she means. Everything glows in a dull blue-gray gleam while the sky is an inky black and the moon a vibrant white disc. The silence around us even takes on a color, like the white noise of snowflakes floating to the ground.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper to the heavens, breathing in the crisp, cool air. A chill runs down the back of my neck, yet I’m not cold. Something about this night feels magical, mystical maybe. A mystery is being shared with me, and I’m trying to listen. I want to learn the secret. I hear something but I can’t make out what I’m being told.

Instead, I face Pear again, who is watching me.

“Yeah. Beautiful,” she whispers as her warm eyes meet mine.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” I say, not really wanting to discuss yesterday’s tension in the midst of our present peace, but something inside me begs me to seek her forgiveness.

“Me, too. It’s not my place—” She stops as my finger covers her lips.

“Do you hear that?” I cup my ear.

“What?” Her voice drops low, and she tips her head to the side as if she’ll hear better.

“Ah-who-who-who,” I call out, quiet but deep.

“What are you doing?” She giggles, covering her mouth to quell the sudden noise. Only, I want to hear her laughter. I want to see her smile. And I want to taste her mouth.

Pulling at strands of her hair that peek out from beneath her cap and hang straight against her shoulder, I say, “I’m staking my claim.”

Or maybe I’m making a mating call. Be mine. Be mine. Be mine.

I certainly understand how owls might work romantically during Valentine’s.

I’d prefer, if their call had an effect, on December twenty-ninth. A random Thursday in early winter.

And when Pear tips up on her toes and brushes my lips with a light kiss, I’m not certain I’ve ever been more surprised.