A Red-winged Blackbird

by Jessie Zanita (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find USA

They say Iowa determines the future of a political candidate, but, in my case, it decided the trajectory of my life. Eight years ago on a gray day in early March, my husband, our two sons, and I boarded the westbound Amtrak’s Lakeshore Limited in Rhinecliff, New York. Our train chugged across the glacier carved hills dotted with maples beginning to drip sap, and then through the darkness, past the Rust Belt cities into Chicago where we transferred to the California Zephyr — a sleek train that’d slowly pull us across America. As a third generation Californian, I needed a break from my tenth winter spent in the East Coast. Having married a New Yorker, I’d been raising our sons, who were seven and twelve-years-old at the time, in western New York. A few weeks prior, our older son was diagnosed with Asperger’s. Three days and three nights of traveling in coach class would deter most parents, but not us, as a cross country train trip was nothing new. A fun distraction as we contemplated an educational plan for our bright, but socially awkward son. On the second day, we’d let the kids eat deep dish pizza while waiting in the marble halls of the Chicago’s Union Station. A few hours later, I had a severe gallstone attack as our train crossed the Illinois/Iowa state border. I awoke in the Ottumwa Hospital on the following morning. My husband and sons departed the train with me, but they lodged at a nearby hotel. The doctor’s orders were to stay until my white blood cell counts (WBCs) dropped to normal. He didn’t recommend surgery until arrival at my final destination. I rested in the bed under the hospital blankets, staring out the window. A collection of dots coalesced in-and-out of configuration in the cobalt blue sky. Perhaps, they were red-winged blackbirds trying to find their way home. My husband said, I’m getting back on train with the boys. A unilateral decision. I hugged and kissed my sons goodbye. Stunned. Alone. In Iowa. I thought of our marriage vows. A few lines from a Gary Snyder poem: Stay together // learn the flowers // go light. My husband and I traveled ten times across the country in the past fourteen years, but this was our first emergency. I didn’t expect to find myself alone in a hospital in middle of Iowa. What to do? Outside the window, the flock of birds moved in-and-out of formation. An unspoken dance of traveling. In that fluttering constellation, I found my answer: I’d fly home. To California. I looked up flights on my laptop, found a cheap one-way ticket from Denver to Sacramento that would leave in two days. After staying another night in the hospital, I was discharged. I groggily took the next overnight train to Denver. I arrived in the crisp air of a sunny morning in Denver. Pulling my suitcase from the Amtrak station to the bus stop, I was surprised by the crowd of happy people jogging by in their green shorts for the Runnin’ of the Green Lucky 7K. I boarded the bus for the hour-long ride to the Denver International Airport. I sat in a silent state of disbelief so deep that I didn’t feel mad. A few hours later, as my plane flew over the snow covered Rocky Mountains, I wondered if love is like geology. A pebble consists of the minerals from the original rock even after all the erosion. Would our love be that way upon seeing my husband? I’d try to forgive him, but I’d never go back to western New York. I didn’t expect that I’d be strong enough to find my own way to California, but I did. The plane descended below the cloud layer, circling around to land at the Sacramento International Airport. The Sacramento River wove through the familiar green fields of rice, winter wheat, and orchards. I imagined female red-winged blackbirds whistling while building nests in the rushes before the lushness of spring turned golden in summer. My body pulled against the seat as the airplane’s wheels touched down, and I was home.