Happy Feather's Day

Last week, I had the honor of visiting my physician. I love visiting my physician, but passing through the impediments leading to his office is like overcoming a series of obstacles for Fear Factor. Or at least it feels that way to a germaphobe.

His office is inside one of those downtown Chicago giant hospital complexes that houses 30-plus floors of clinically unwell people. Just getting through the oversized rotating doors challenges me. I choose the fastest revolving door that has the most momentum to try and duck through without touching any surfaces. I usually have to push the last few inches though, because everyone else is trying not to touch too.

Then there’s the elevator. Where else in the world do I ride shoulder-to-shoulder with people coughing like tuberculosis? Where else do I hope someone else is going to the same floor as me so I don’t have to touch one of the dirty floor buttons? Where else do I breathe recycled air exhaled by the person next to me who probably has the Chicago strain of a rare influenza infection?

The elevator turned fun that day. It came as quite a surprise. On the first floor, I had to reach over and touch the 18th floor button. What a let down. But on the second floor, we stopped to let in more people, and two war veterans stepped on. The one had a baseball cap stating his company and division, but I couldn’t see it clearly to read. What struck me—and everyone else in the elevator—so much about this man was that stuck into the mesh of his cap, he had two large feathers placed on either side of his head, like Mercury’s wings. I couldn’t help but smile.

“I like your hat,” I said. I tucked down my head and gestured at my forehead like adjusting the bill of a cap.

“Oh thanks,” he said smiling but casual.

Another woman wanted to get into the fun too, “What are the feathers for?”

“It’s Feather’s Day,” he grinned.

“Feather’s Day?” I asked.

“Yep.”

The other woman had the wherewithal to ask, “What’s Feather’s Day?”

“It’s to celebrate the one that didn’t get away.”

Sadly, the elevator opened at 18 at just that moment. I was sorely let down. I really wanted to hear the answer to that line of questioning.

What didn’t get away? The feather that stayed? The bird that stayed? A day that didn’t get away?

I’d like to think it was the day that didn’t get away. The opportunity that wasn’t missed. I’d also like to find Feather’s Day within me every day. I’d like to always celebrate what didn’t get away. I wonder if I need to stick feathers in my cap to remember though.